


we didn't even kiss until issue 26

by Cinaed



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Canonical Character Death, Friends to Lovers, Heroes & Heroines, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-01-06 10:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 92,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18386954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: Dick Simmons has a multi-step plan. Move to Blood Gulch, become a superhero, assume a civilian identity, and save the day with the other heroes of the city. He didn't count on his fellow superheroes being so weird, the villains even weirder, and getting stuck with the most annoying coworker in the universe at his civilian job. But there are secrets and danger in the city, tensions boiling under the surface, and Simmons may be in over his head.





	1. The First Appearance of Professor Stupendous

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I writing another WIP at the same time as the Teenage Witch one? Because I can't resist Grimmons, I guess. :)
> 
> Please enjoy the first chapter of my take on a superhero AU. The title comes from the Metasciences song "Four-Color Love Story." 
> 
> Thanks go out to folks in chat who helped me with all these idiots' powers and awful hero/villain names. 
> 
> I've tried to put the most important tags on this story on the first chapter, but I'll be adding tags as necessary as the story progresses.
> 
> Also please enjoy creatrixianimi's [amazing art](https://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/184947664912/here-are-some-various-costume-design-doodles-ive) of most of the cast!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step one: establish yourself as a superhero. Step two: Secure a civilian identity. Step three: try not to strangle your coworkers or fellow superheroes.

His first attempt at being a superhero starts out well. The keyword in that sentence is _starts_. Simmons uses his cyborg arm as a proxy jaw of death and rescues two people from a car approximately ten seconds before it explodes. He’s still blinking away spots in his vision, his skin hot from the blast, vaguely aware that the paramedics are lifting the people out of his arms and that another person is sobbing a thank you at him, when a microphone gets shoved in his face.

“Dylan Andrews, reporter for Channel Seven. Sir, do you mind answering a few questions?”

Simmons had a speech prepared. It was a good speech, about his ideals and why he’s chosen to protect Blood Gulch City. He’s forgotten every word. “Um.” The hard-won confidence of successfully saving people’s lives shrivels up and dies as Ms. Andrews raises an eyebrow.

“Will you tell us your name at least?”

For a second Simmons just stares blankly. Oh god, he’s forgotten his own superhero name. He’s an _idiot_. “Um, Professor Stupendous,” he finally squeaks out, the name sticking in his throat and sounding one hundred percent less cool than it had an hour ago when he was giving himself a pep talk in his bathroom mirror.

“Professor Stupendous,” Ms. Andrews repeats. Curiosity lights her face. “Is your title related to your civilian profession? Do you teach? What’s your degree in?”

“Uh,” Simmons says, drawing out the word. Should he compromise his civilian identity like that? But maybe it’s rude not to answer? Panic chokes him. The readings in his cybernetic eye flash, warning for his accelerated heartbeat. “You know what, I need to go.”

He bolts.

The next morning, there’s a heated opinion piece in the local paper that calls Professor Stupendous a fraud and complains about all these heroes and villains calling themselves doctors and professors when most of them probably don’t even have a Master’s degree.

Simmons crumples the newspaper and wishes he could set it on fire with his eye. “I have two PhDs!” he protests to his empty apartment. “Two!”

 

* * *

 

So phase one of his plan to establish himself as a superhero didn’t go great. He still saved some lives, so he’s counting it as a win.

Now onto phase two, which is establishing his civilian identity in the city. He doesn’t really _need_ a job -- he has three shell companies that handle his patents and at this point honestly he has more money than he knows what to do with -- but civilians have jobs.

Plain, ordinary Dick Simmons needs a very boring, very normal occupation. The transcription company seems like a perfect fit. As long as he gets his work in on time, no one will care if he takes the occasional break to go fight villains. Especially since this place is run by a man whose name tag actually reads Sarge. Just Sarge, no last name, like it should be a sheriff's badge and he’s stepped out of the Wild West or an action movie.

“You know what’s expected,” Sarge says. “Get the work done, get done it right, and show ‘em that we’re better than those idiots across the hall.” He turns and shakes a fist towards the door, bellowing, “WE’RE THE BEST TRANSCRIPTIONISTS IN THE CITY, YA FATHEADS!”

“I THINK YOU MEAN THE SLOWEST!” someone yells back.

“Wait, what?” Simmons says, lost. He remembers Mr. Dufresne, the HR representative, and his strange, half-defeated look as he told Simmons to come to him if he had any questions or concerns. “Show who? Who’s across the hall?”

“The enemy, of course! Our rivals! Think they’re better’n us--” Sarge stops. His eyes narrow, his thick eyebrows bristling with sudden suspicion. “What’s with all the questions? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a spy!”

Simmons blinks. He almost suspects Sarge of joking, especially since he’s pretty sure that the people across the hall work for the same company, but the man seems serious. “I’m just trying to get my bearings, sir. I’ll, um, stay away from the people across the hall?”  

Sarge seems mollified. “I knew you’d catch on quick. Now, we hired you cause ya seemed like an eager beaver. Get to work!”

Simmons sits down at his desk and tries to focus. He flexes his cyborg hand, hidden within the fake skin he’s constructed, and pulls up his first assignment. Because his week is going _great,_ the first audio is an interview between Ms. Andrews and one of the other local superheroes, a speedster who calls himself the Orange Blur. Within thirty seconds, Simmons wonders if he’s being pranked, because the Orange Blur talks almost as fast as he runs. It’s going to take him all day and multiple playbacks to be able to properly transcribe the interview.

Someone prods him in the shoulder. When he turns, taking off his headphones, he finds himself leaning back in his chair and tilting his face up towards a man who looks like he wandered off the street into the office. The guy’s enormous, broad-shouldered, his thick brown hair pulled into a messy man-bun, and wearing a black pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt too faded to make out the band name that stretches over a soft stomach. His orange flip flops are the ugliest things Simmons has ever seen.

Simmons would assume he’s some eccentric client, except he does have a crooked name tag pinned to his shirt that says Dexter Grif. Grif has clearly never heard of a proper dress code, but somehow he makes Simmons feel overdressed and stuffy in his suit and tie. Grif is also staring at him, so Simmons unclenches his jaw enough to grit out a question. “What?”

“Dude, what crawled up your ass and died?”

Irritation and frustration makes Simmons snap. “Gee, it’s my first day and my first assignment is awful! Have you ever transcribed an interview with the Orange Blur? He sucks!” His voice cracks, and he flushes hotly even as Grif scowls at him.

“He doesn’t suck! You suck!”

Simmons stares. Grif stares back, looking offended. Great, and now he’s alienated a coworker who’s apparently an Orange Blur fanboy. There are five active superheroes in Blood Gulch, not including Simmons, but of course Simmons can’t bump into a big fan of In-and-Out or Sergeant Blood. “Excuse me?”

Grif grimaces and steps back, shaking his head. “Ugh, forget it. I _was_ going to warn you about Donut, but you can learn the hard way.”

“Why would you warn me about donuts?” Simmons asks, baffled, and then jumps as a voice croons from behind him, “Aw, Grif, you’re not going to introduce me?”

“Donut, meet the new guy,” Grif says. His eyes dip down to Simmons’ shirt, where his shiny new name tag is pinned very carefully. He heaves a sigh. Tonelessly, he adds, “Richard Simmons, meet Donut.”

“Franklin Delano Donut, at your service!” the man chirps. When Simmons turns in his seat to look at him, Donut turns out to be a tall man with a bright smile and the fashion sense of a farm boy who’s decided to go a little wild in the city. He’s wearing light red flannel, jeans, and work boots, but his hair is dyed a shocking shade of pink. Simmons is also pretty sure he’s wearing lip gloss.

“Uh, hi. Dick Simmons,” Simmons says.

Beside him, Grif snorts. “Really, dude? You have the choice between Rich and Dick and you choose Dick as your nickname?”

“What’s wrong with Dick?” Donut asks, his eyes wide. “I love it!”

There’s something about the way Donut talks, Simmons decides, that makes him uncomfortable. Heat creeps into his face. He clears his throat. “Uh, on second thought, maybe you should call me Simmons.”

“Okay, Simmons!” Donut says, beaming at him.

A new voice interrupts, sounding amused. “Is this the new guy? Hey, Church, look, they’re copying us. They have their own nerd now.”

“Fuck you,” another voice snaps.

Donut, meanwhile, redirects his smile towards the door to the office, where three guys are clustered just outside. He waves even as Sarge growls from his desk. Either oblivious to or ignoring his boss’s clear displeasure, Donut says, “Hi, Tucker! Hi, Church! Hi, Caboose!”

“Hi, Biscuit!” one of the newcomers says, waving. Simmons is tall, but he suspects he’ll feel short next to this guy and Grif. The guy’s built like a quarterback, floppy hair falling into his eyes and a big, guileless grin on his face.

“Caboose, his name is Donut, remember?” Grif says from his desk.  

“You’re encroaching on our territory, boys,” Sarge growls, as though he's about to tell them to reach for the skies and get out of his town. Simmons is beginning to wonder if maybe this job was a bad idea after all.  

One of the guys snorts. Since he’s wearing glasses and the previous speaker has already called Simmons a nerd, Simmons figures that it’s safe to assume that he’s Church. Church looks like he hasn’t slept in months, dark circles under his green eyes and a scowl on his face. “We’re just standing in the hallway, Sarge. Go bitch to HR.” He stares at Simmons, adjusting his glasses to squint. “Hey, new guy, how fast can you type?”

“Uh, what?” Simmons says, blinking. “Um, eighty-five words per minute--”

“Don’t talk to them!” Sarge snaps.  

“Eighty-five?” Church grimaces. He looks annoyed. “Ugh, he’s actually going to be useful.”

“Dude, it doesn’t matter,” says the last guy, who by process of elimination is Tucker. He rolls his eyes, leaning against the door-frame. Apparently no one in the office has actually read the workplace attire policy, because the top of his frohawk is dyed blue and he’s wearing an obscene T-shirt that makes Simmons to die after reading it. “I keep telling you guys, we all work for the same company. This rivalry thing is bullshit.”

“I ain’t falling for that!” Sarge says. “We won’t lower our guard.”

“This whole ‘best office of the month’ thing is just to get us to work harder. It’s a scam!”

Sarge crosses his arms against his chest. “That’s what you want me to think!”

“Yeah, because it’s true!”

“Is it always like this?” Simmons whispers to Grif.

Grif glances at him. There’s a sarcastic slant to his eyebrows. He shrugs. “Yeah. But hey, I’ll put up with some stupid shit to choose my own hours and get two-hour lunch breaks.”

Simmons frowns. “Actually, our contract says if lunch is expected to take longer than forty-five minutes, then we're supposed to--”

“Ugh. Are you like this all the time?” Grif asks.

“Like what?” Simmons says, blinking.

Grif snorts. “Yeah. Got it.” He looks at Simmons for a second, long enough that Simmons starts feeling uncomfortable. Then he shakes his head. “Just a head’s up. The best office thing really is bullshit. We don’t get, like, a prize or anything.” Then he puts on a pair of headphones. He’s not working though. Simmons can see YouTube up on his screen.

Simmons sighs. He needs this job, he reminds himself. No one will expect a superhero to have a day job as a transcriptionist. He puts his headphones on and tries to focus on the Orange Blur interview. It takes him the better part of the morning to get the transcription finished.

An alert flashes in his cyborg eye. He hacked into the emergency alert system two weeks ago. Right now it’s calling for all hands on deck for a semi-trailer hanging off an overpass.

“I’m taking my lunch!” he says, starting to stand and forgetting that he still has his headphones on. He yanks them off, flushing, and then realizes there’s no one around to notice his fumbling. The office is empty.

When he gets to the accident, four of the city’s heroes are already there, clustered together as the police set up a hasty perimeter. The semi tilts precariously off the overpass, clearly unstable and likely to fall in the next couple of minutes. From what he’s heard on the emergency channel, the driver is still trapped inside and unresponsive.

Simmons has prepared for this moment. He squares his shoulders and approaches the other heroes. “Hello,” he says, realizing as he hears himself that he’s pitched his voice too low. It comes out low and gravelly, like he’s a wannabe Batman. He flushes as they all turn to stare at him.

A fifth hero pops into view. “Hello!” says Doctor Pacifist, whose power is invisibility and whose costume when he is visible is a bright, vivid purple that can be seen for miles around. “Professor Stupendous, right? Nice work saving those people the other day!” He sounds friendly enough, but instantly spoils it by turning back to the group and saying, “Guys, how are we doing this? That man needs medical attention.”

Sergeant Blood shrugs. “I can shoot the semi off the bridge if we need it away from civilians when it explodes.” Simmons tries not to stare at him or his famous space gun. He wonders what it’s like to go from fighting aliens in the 1940s to adjusting to modern day. It's probably a weird adjustment. 

“And my powers only works on people and animals,” the Magic Mouth says. “I can’t do anything with that semi.” Simmons has heard about his persuasive powers to convince criminals to drop their weapon and turn themselves over to the police, but right now he just sounds apologetic and frustrated.

“I don’t know why I can’t just teleport in and grab the guy,” In-and-Out complains, her arms folded against her chest. Her face is the most familiar to Simmons. After she was sued by the In-and-Out business for trade name infringement, she’d managed to become the burger chain’s spokeswoman. She's one of the few sponsored superheroes, though Magic Mouth has done a few commercials as well. In-and-Out is on billboards throughout the city, as well as constantly on TV. She’s taller than he expected.   

“Uh, because if he’s trapped and the semi goes, you’re gonna get hurt,” the Orange Blur snaps in his rapid-fire voice. “That’s not happening. It’s not like you’re replaceable, like Pacifist or Magic Mouth or, seriously, all Blood here has is his dumb gun, anybody could use that. You’re not getting hurt, not like-- I mean not like you know who, that’s not happening--” He keeps talking, and Simmons takes a second to judge him for his costume. His face is indistinct, hidden under a bright orange hoodie and the constant vibrations of his speedster powers. He looks like he grabbed the first thing out of his closet and stuck with it. It's sloppy. Simmons tunes back in when he hears, “We’ve got to do something about the truck. Keep it steady, keep it from falling.”

“I can help,” Simmons says. He holds up his shining metal arm. “Um, I’m a cyborg. It's a long story.”  

He’s barely finished his sentence before there are suddenly hands on his shoulders, surprisingly hot against his still-human arm. The Orange Blur has no sense of personal space, leaning in close as he says, “Great. Keep it steady, I’ll get the guy out, and everybody goes home happy, except for whoever this dude works for who’s probably pissed. Just keep it from falling, okay, buddy?”

“I--” Simmons’ stomach lurches. One second he’s with the group, the next second he’s standing at the side of the semi-trailer, right where it’s started to tip off the overpass. He wobbles, a little dizzy. 

“Hurry up,” snaps the Orange Blur. “What, are you trying to build up the tension? Let’s just fucking save this guy.”

Simmons snaps back, “Give me a second!” He takes a breath. His cyborg eye flashes calculations. He can do this. He grabs onto the semi-trailer with his cyborg hand, and then braces with his cyborg leg. There’s a groan of metal and an ache building in his shoulder, but the semi-trailer stops wobbling.

“Cool. Got him out, got him safe,” the Orange Blur says. “Handed him off to the tender, loving care of our EMTs. You can let go now. Unless you want to pose for the news and look heroic or something. Probably need to, after that clusterfuck of an interview with Andrews. She was giving you softball questions, dude, how did you screw up? So yeah, don’t let go. Maybe she’ll give you even easier questions. Though what’s easier than your name and your job? If you're happy you saved someone's life? That's a no-brainer, that's a total no-brainer.”

Simmons blinks. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees that the driver is already on a cot, two EMTs leaning over him. It’s one thing to know how fast speedsters are; it’s quite another to experience it first-hand. He flushes, torn between pride that he did help, and irritation at the Orange Blur’s constant insults. He lets go of the semi.

Metal screeches. He flinches away as the semi-trailer tilts and tumbles off the bridge. He rubs at his ringing ears and winces at the spray of water as the semi hits the bay below. “Um. That was not my fault.”  

The Orange Blur laughs. “Yeah. Keep telling yourself that. But hey, there’s Andrews trying to get around the cops. Tell her all about how awesome you were a second ago. She might believe you. She has a soft spot for heroes, even if they’re screw-ups like Doc.”

Simmons thinks of the disastrous interview, the way Ms. Andrews had looked at him, sympathetic but confused and eventually judgmental. His heartbeat, already fast from adrenaline and exertion, speeds up. He grimaces. “Uh, actually, I’ll let you talk to her,” he says quickly. He waves at the other superheroes. “It was nice meeting you all! I look forward to working with you again! Uh, bye!”

It’s really hard to make a quick exit when one superhero is a speedster and another can teleport. He gets about five steps before In-and-Out pops into the space in front of him, laughing. “Bitch, please. If you’re gonna be a superhero here, you’ve gotta come to Mouth’s Wine and Cheese Hour.”

Again Simmons is torn. On the one hand, the invitation makes him giddy. They’re accepting him, despite the screw-up with the truck. On the other hand, he’s probably going to get fired from his civilian job on his very first day. “Um, can I get a rain check? I’m actually on my lunch break, so--”

Magic Mouth claps his hands, his smile obvious even behind his sequined mask. “So, that’s perfect! I know the perfect restaurant around the corner! We’ll have a quick meal to celebrate and then you can skedaddle to your civilian thing.”

Simmons doesn’t _think_ Magic Mouth used his powers, but he still finds himself somehow agreeing, which is how he ends up sitting down at a table in a private room, the other heroes settling into their chairs as In-and-Out flirts with their waiter. Simmons licks his lips, nervous and excited. “It’s, um, nice to meet you all,” he says, belatedly realizing that he already said that.

“Uh huh,” the Orange Blur says, and then yelps as In-and-Out pauses in her flirting to punch him in the arm and say, “Don’t eat all the bread, asshole! You didn’t work that hard today. Stupendous did most of the work, even if he fucked up at the end!”

Simmons looks down, biting his lip at yet another half-compliment, half-insult, and notices what she’s angry about: the basket of complimentary bread is empty. Simmons didn’t even see the Orange Blur reach for the bread.

“I’ll get you another basket,” the waiter says hastily.

“Don’t hit me! You know I need to eat. Otherwise it’s bam, down for the count, and nobody wants that. It’ll ruin Mouth’s stupid Wine and Cheese Hour, and then he’ll cry, and we all remembered the last time that happened, right? When he cried? It wasn’t good.”

“So,” Sergeant Blood says, and Simmons jerks sharply to attention. Sergeant Blood is staring at him, his space gun propped against his leg. “That cyborg arm is strong. Ever tear a man limb from limb?”

“No!” Simmons squeaks, horrified by the thought.

Sergeant Blood looks disappointed.

Magic Mouth tsks. “Sergeant Blood, he’s still new! I’m sure he’ll get an opportunity to tear someone to pieces later!”

“I, uh, really hope not,” Simmons says weakly.

Doctor Pacifist clears his throat and says, reproachful, “Guys, we talked about this. We hand criminals over to the police and let the justice system do its work.”

The Orange Blur snorts. “Yeah, because the justice system isn’t rigged. Ugh, I hate when you guys make me agree with Doc. But seriously, no killing anyone. Unless you have to, like if In-and-Out is in danger or--”

“Bitch, I am not a damsel in distress!” In-and-Out shrieks, and hits him again.

“Ow, fuck! I was just saying!”

In-and-Out makes to hit him a third time, and Simmons says hastily, “I mean, it’s a dangerous job, right? I can see why he’s worried. Especially after Iteration--”

“We don’t talk about her,” the Orange Blurs says, suddenly very still. Simmons can almost see his face, shadowed by his hoodie. Is he wearing glasses? His voice is hard. “We don’t talk about any of that.”

Simmons almost presses. They don’t talk about Iteration? Just last month the news was playing memorial videos, honoring the hero on the one-year anniversary of her death. It had been impossible to avoid. But he looks around at everyone, and sees quiet agreement and strained expressions half-hidden by their masks. His stomach sinks. He’s been part of the group for all of five minutes and already jammed his foot in his mouth.

“Okay,” he says, swallowing. “Got it.”

“Yes, well, now you know,” Magic Mouth says, subdued. Then he claps his hands. There’s a hint of forced cheerfulness in his voice as he continues. “And now for some wine, to celebrate Professor Stupendous joining us in Blood Gulch! I’m thinking red.”

“So why did you come here?” In-and-Out leans across the table, gazing curiously at Simmons.

“Oh, um,” Simmons says, still flustered by his misstep. He hesitates, and then settles on the truth. “I saw the news about the Trio and--”

To his surprise, the mood lightens. The Orange Blur actually laughs. “And you thought we needed help to deal with those bozos? They’re losers. Like, even bigger losers than Doc here--”

“Hey,” protests Doctor Pacifist, and is ignored.  

“--and we’ll stop them when they become a real threat.”

“Yeah, they’re losers, but Laserblade is kind of hot,” In-and-Out says idly.

“Ugh,” the Orange Blur says. “Please stop.”

It’s true that so far the Trio hasn’t done more than some minimal damage to the infrastructure, but Simmons still thinks they shouldn’t underestimate them. Moonboose is strong enough to lift a bus over his head, Laserblade can literally create laser swords, and Doctor Terrible has a seemingly endless number of schemes to gain control of the city. He’s distracted from his thoughts by Magic Mouth pressing a wine glass into his hand.

“Let’s toast! To a successful rescue and a new teammate!”

Simmons ducks his head, knowing his mask won’t hide the pleased flush in his face. He takes a slow sip of his wine along with everyone else, careful not to jostle his mask. “Thank you,” he says. “I just hope I can, um, that is, that I can do some good.”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing okay so far,” In-and-Out says. She finishes off her wine and grins at him. “Just don’t fuck up.”

“Don’t fuck up,” the Orange Blur agrees.

“Yeah,” Simmons mutters, taking another sip of his wine. “That’s the plan.”


	2. Learning Curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons fixes Tucker and Grif's computers, stops a bar fight, and meets a few of the local police. All in all, the day has some highs and lows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for Aryashi for looking this over for me!

Simmons finally excuses himself after some cheese and another glass of wine and hurries back to the transcription office, growing more and more convinced that he’s going to be fired with every step. When he gets into the office, though, his false skin covering his cyborg hand again and his costume tucked away in the trunk of his car, there’s still no one there.

“Huh,” Simmons says. He blinks. “Grif wasn’t kidding when he mentioned those two-hour lunches.”

“Uh, yeah,” Grif says, making him jump. When did he come into the room? “No one cares, as long as you get your stuff turned in on time.” He drops into his chair, pulling a bag of Cheetos from his desk. He spins in place as he eats, oblivious to Simmons’ horror at the orange dust coating his fingers. He’s not going to type without washing his hands-- He is. Grif turns to his keyboard and starts to type with sticky orange fingers.

“That’s _disgusting_ ,” Simmons says.

Grif rolls his eyes. Then he groans. He jabs at the keyboard. “Come on, work. Shit. Why do the fucking keys always stick?”

“Hm,” Simmons says. He scrunches up his face, pretending to think hard. “That’s such a mystery, but maybe, just maybe, it’s because your fingers are literally covered in food?” He shudders. "And probably crumbs and salivia.”

Grif keeps typing with one hand, using the other to give Simmons the finger.

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Simmons mutters, sitting down in his chair and inching it further away from Grif. He immediately regrets it. Not because Grif isn’t a jerk, but Simmons doesn’t want to get hauled over to HR on his first day.

“Don’t worry, Simmons,” says Donut. He saunters past to lean against the edge of Grif’s desk. “Grif’s usually not this gross. I mean, he’s _always_ eating, but he usually washes his hands.” He winks at Simmons. “He must want to make an impression!”

Grif glares. “Go away.”

Simmons squints at them. Is this hazing? If it is, Grif’s not very good at it. It feels counterproductive to destroy your own equipment just to harass the new guy. And the keyboard is definitely screwed up. Simmons can feel it. It makes him uncomfortable in that way broken tech always make his powers feel, like there’s an itch between his shoulder-blades that he can’t quite reach. He tries to ignore it as Grif pokes at the keyboard a couple times, pretending not to hear Grif’s groans of frustration.

Finally Grif rummages around in one of his drawers. After pulling out a seemingly endless supply of energy bars, he unearths a can of compressed air.

He aims it at the keyboard, and Simmons snaps. He snatches the can out of Grif’s hand.

Grif stares at him. “Dude, what’s your problem?”

“That’s not how you clean a keyboard,” Simmons says. He can hear the bite in his voice, and takes a deep breath, struggling not to just shove Grif aside and fix the poor keyboard. “You’re just going to make things worse.”

Grif rolls his eyes. “Okay. Fix it, Mr. Smart Guy.”

“Move, and I will,” Simmons says. As soon as Grif is out of the way, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms against his faded shirt, Simmons unplugs the keyboard. He gives it a few gentle shakes, watching crumbs fall to the floor. The keys are still orange and grimy with Cheetos dust. Simmons knows in his heart that there’s more crumbs lodged under the keys. It’s probably better just to clean the entire thing. “Do we have a supply closet?”

“No, but I keep an emergency kit in my truck,” Sarge says, suddenly at his shoulder. “What do you need?”

Simmons bite back a yelp of surprise. What is with this office and everyone walking around like cat burglars? “Uh, a screwdriver, some rubbing alcohol, dish soap, cotton swabs, a bowl, and a towel.”

“I can get you that screwdriver and rubbing alcohol.”

“Oh, I gave Frank a facial last week,” Donut says brightly. Simmons chokes slightly, and then relaxes as Donut adds, “The poor man needed a spa day, so I brought it to him! I bet he still has the towel. And we have bowls and dish soap in the staff kitchen.”

“Okay, good. That just leaves the cotton swabs.” Simmons sighs at the sea of blank faces. “Q-tips? Nothing? Right. I’ll figure something out.”

Both Sarge and Donut go off in search of the supplies. Grif stays where he is. Simmons can’t read his expression, but something in his long stare makes him feel defensive. He hugs the keyboard to his chest before he realizes he’s probably getting crumbs all over his suit and says, “Fixing keyboards is simple. Anyone can do it.”

“Uh huh,” Grif says. He grabs one of the energy bars he pulled from the drawer. “If you want cotton swabs, you could ask across the hall.” He snorts, unwrapping the bar. The smell of chocolate hits Simmons’ nose. “Better do it quick though, ‘cause that’s enemy territory.”

Simmons remembers Sarge’s weirdness earlier about the three guys in the hallway. What were their names again? Tucker, Caboose, and Church? “Uh, right. Thanks.”

When he gets across the hallway, the door is open. There’s the sound of an argument inside, something about personal space, a low rumble of sound that cuts off as he knocks tentatively.

“Do you want a written invitation? Come in.”

“Um, hi,” Simmons says, stepping inside. “I’m Simmons from across the hall?”

Tucker stares at him. “Yeah, we met you like five hours ago. We remember.”

“Hi!” Caboose says cheerfully. He’s not sitting in a chair like a normal person. Instead he’s sitting on the table, a pair of headphones around his neck and his laptop perched precariously on his crossed legs. Simmons can’t help but notice his shoes are untied, and that Church has apparently constructed a wall or barricade with a bunch of books to keep Caboose away.

“Hi,” Simmons repeats. He fiddles with his glasses. “Uh, do any of you have some Q-tips or cotton swabs? Grif’s keyboard is messing up, and I wanted to--”

“Doesn’t sound like our problem,” Church says, smirking.

“We work for the same company,” Simmons points out. No one looks swayed. Even Tucker, who was earlier arguing the same thing, just stares. Simmons is beginning to wonder if there’s something in the water. Maybe the Trio has contaminated the water system with some aggression-inducing drugs. Or maybe this company just likes to hire assholes. “Don’t you want to help?”

Church shrugs. “Not really.” His gaze sharpens. “But maybe we’ll give you some cotton swabs if you agree to do us a favor.”

“Um, again, we work together, so sure--”

Church grins. It’s not a nice grin. “Great. You like to fix computers, right? You can fix Tucker’s. He keeps watching porn instead of working, so there’s a fuck-ton of adware and malware on it.”

Simmons feels all the blood rush to his face. His cheeks burn so hot that he’s surprised he doesn’t spontaneously combusts. He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a horrified squeak.

Tucker shrugs, looking unembarrassed. “Hey, man, the internet is for porn.”

“But-- your _work_ computer-- why-- what did you-- no, never mind.” Simmons debates telling them all to go to hell and getting cotton swabs from the convenience store two blocks away, but now that he knows the state Tucker’s poor laptop is in, it’s going to bother him. He sighs. “Okay, let me borrow the cotton swabs and then I’ll be back to fix Tucker’s laptop later.”

Church’s grin widens. “Deal.” He tosses the cotton swabs box at Simmons.

The throw goes wide. Simmons only manages to catch it by half-diving for it.

“You have the shittiest aim,” Tucker mutters.

“Shut up.”

Simmons retreats back to his office, where at least no one is watching porn. Well, where he hopes no one is watching porn. He disassembles Grif’s keyboard, which has at least a month’s worth of crumbs inside it, and then reassembles it. His powers settle down, like he’s scratched that annoying itch, and he resists the urge to sigh in relief. “There. Fixed. Now just don’t eat at the desk and your keyboard will stay fixed.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Grif drawls. He taps at the keyboard. His eyebrows rise. “Huh. Guess nerds come in handy sometimes.”  

“I’m not a--” Simmons starts to protest, and stops as Grif reaches for his headphones. He scowls at the back of Grif’s head. Would a thank-you kill him? He glances around, making sure Sarge is distracted, and says, “Anyway, I owe Church a favor so I’m gonna do that.”

Grif snorts. “Have fun.”

Church wasn’t exaggerating. Simmons almost cries at the state of Tucker’s computer. His powers instantly get agitated again. “Do you use any adblocker or antivirus software at all?” he asks, despairing, and then puts his head into his hands when Tucker says, looking like _Simmons_ is the idiot here, “Uh, the vids won’t play with adblock on.”

He cleans out the adware and malware, installs an adblocker and quickly adds a code that gives only Simmons himself permission to remove or uninstall the extension. That should keep the laptop working for a while, at least until Tucker loses his temper and breaks it.

Simmons isn’t expecting a thank you. Which is good, because he doesn’t get one. Instead Church squints at him and asks, “So what’s your deal? You clearly know computers. Why aren’t you making a shitload of money in IT or building your own app?”

“Uh,” Simmons says, blinking. He tries to figure out a way to explain that he worked in IT for about five seconds before all the different problems drove him up the wall, but every explanation probably makes him sound like a thin-skinned idiot or a weirdo.

“Yeah, good question,” Tucker says as Simmons struggles. “This place sucks. The job’s boring and everyone here is a dickweasel. Well, except for me, _I_ have a great personality and, well, look at me.” He looks smug as he gestures at his face, and then frowns. “And there’s no chicks! How is this place such a goddamn sausage fest?”

“Okay, maybe this place sucks, but at least you don’t actually have to deal with customers. This--” Simmons gestures wildly at the laptop. “--happens every day! And I had to pretend people weren’t idiots! And if you hate it so much, why are _you_ here?”

Tucker shrugs. “Single dad, dude. I can make my own hours, and work around Junior’s preschool schedule. Speaking of which, I need to leave in like ten minutes to pick him up.”

“Oh,” Simmons says, deflating. “That makes sense.”

“I’m here because I love my friends,” Caboose volunteers.

“We’re not your friends, Caboose,” Church says.

“Right, right,” Caboose says, nodding solemnly, before he adds in a stage whisper, “Church says that so Tucker isn’t jealous, but I am his very best friend. Do _you_ have a very best friend, Mr. Simon?”

“It’s Simmons, and uh.” Simmons flushes. The only numbers in his new phone are his parents, his lawyer, the heads of his shell companies, and this company’s. “I just moved to the city, so. You know. Um. I should get back to work.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t have friends,” Tucker mutters as he leaves.

Simmons takes a breath. He needs this job, he reminds himself. He needs a civilian identity. Besides, maybe they were all just hazing him and will be nicer tomorrow.  

 

* * *

 

“For Simmons?” the woman behind the counter asks. She’s already handing over the carryout bag before Simmons can say anything.

The smell of cashews and chicken fill his senses, and Simmons’ stomach rumbles. It’s been hours since he had that wine and cheese platter with his fellow heroes. He’s half-tempted to sit and eat his carryout at an empty table, but the woman’s already put everything into takeout containers. She’ll probably think it’s weird if he eats here now. He smiles, handing over a tip. “Thank you. I, uh, just moved into the neighborhood, so I’m trying all the restaurants and….” He trails off as she tucks the twenty into her pocket with a hurried thank you and disappears into the kitchen. He sighs. Part of the civilian identity means establishing himself in his neighborhood, but so far he doesn’t think he’s making much of an impression. On the upside, he’s eaten a large variety of food, and most of it has actually been good.

Simmons leaves the restaurant just in time to watch the window of the bar across the street explode in a shower of glass and someone tumble and roll across the sidewalk. Another body joins the first, and Simmons can hear shouts and curses.

By the time he’s changed into his costume and stowed his dinner in his car, the bar brawl is in full swing. Simmons’ cybernetic eye flags five aggressors and twice as many bystanders, most of whom seem to be standing at the far walls and enjoying the show. The bartender is crouched behind the bar, hastily pulling the expensive bottles down off their shelves, presumably to avoid destruction and a pissed off boss. His cybernetic eye throws up a warning from a new beta program he’s been working on, one that’s meant to identify the empowered and their abilities. There are two smack in the middle of the fight. His cybernetic eye throws out a couple possibilities on their powers.

The one guy has low level telekinesis-- nope, Simmons corrects himself, magnetizing. A few darts pluck themselves from the dartboard and fly sluggishly towards the guy. The guy’s weak, and the darts will only hurt if he actually gets his hands on them and throws them at someone’s eye, but Simmons still steps in and bats them to the ground with his cyborg arm.

The other one can manipulate liquid, sending drinks splashing into the faces of the people holding them. A lot of the bystanders look less amused now, and Simmons can feel the jump in tension. The brawl’s about to go from five people to twenty.

Simmons steps in. He grabs both powered men and smacks their heads together, not hard enough to knock them unconscious, but hard enough to distract them. The darts fall harmlessly to the ground. “Okay!” he shouts. “Everyone needs to sit down!”

For a second, the bar actually quiets down, even if no one actually follows his directions and sits. “Hey, that’s the new hero,” someone says.

Simmons brightens, pleased to be recognized, until someone else adds, “Yeah, Doctor Awesome! He helped the Orange Blur earlier. Hey, did you mean to drop that truck off the bridge or--”

He sighs. “It’s Professor Stupendous, actually. And this fight is over.”

“Oh yeah? You and what army?” says one of the guys, squirming in his grip. There’s a red mark on his forehead where his head collided with the other empowered man's. Before Simmons can answer, police sirens fill the air. The man sags, mumbling, “Right. Them.”

There’s a sudden rush of people towards the door. Apparently everyone is willing to watch the fight, but no one wants to stick around as a witness. Somehow Simmons isn’t surprised. He glances at the bartender. “Um, do you want me to stop anyone?”

The bartender shrugs. “You’ve got the two who started it there. That’s good enough for me.”

“Aw, come on,” the other guy whines. He makes a few halfhearted attempts to escape Simmons’ grip, and curses sullenly when Simmons just tightens his grip.

The door opens, and three officers walk inside, studying the scene with expressions that range from amused to exasperated to vaguely murderous.

Simmons gives them a nervous smile, well aware that police have mixed feelings about superheroes. He almost waves, and then remembers he’s still holding onto both culprits. He settles for a bright, “Good evening, officers!”

He’s answered with a scowl from the officer leading the group, the one who looked murderous. Her feelings don’t seem mixed at all. Her green eyes are cold. “Professor Stupendous,” she says with a twist of her mouth. Simmons wilts at the contempt in her voice. “I guess heroes think that police can’t handle simple bar fights?”

Simmons’ embarrassment turns to surprise. “What? No, I just happened to be walking by-- not that I live in the neighborhood or anything.” He laughs nervously, breaking into a sweat as the officer stares at him. “I just, uh, am still learning the city and thought--”

“Thought you’d complicate our lives by interfering where you weren’t needed,” the officer says flatly.

One of the other officers coughs and says awkwardly, “I mean, Carolina, I don’t mind him stopping some drunk empowered idiot from throwing silverware at my head. York nearly lost an eye, remember?” Detective Carolina glares at him and he winces and mumbles, “And I’ll stop talking now.”  

Simmons blinks. His heart sinks. He knows a lot of police dislike superheroes, but this detective is looking at him with what feels like genuine hate. “Um, I didn’t mean to complicate things. I hold the police in the highest regard--”

“Fine words from a vigilante,” Detective Carolina sneers.  

One of the guys dangling from Simmons’ grip snickers. “Dude, she hates you. What, did you sleep with her and then ghost her?”

Simmons almost tells him to shut up, but there’s a lump in his throat and a sick feeling in his stomach. “Um,” he says instead. The inarticulate sound comes out wobbly. “I didn’t mean--”

Detective Carolina steps closer, and he can’t help the instinctual flinch, because she moves like she wants to hit him. “We don’t need more superheroes in this city,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. “No one wants you here.”

The last detective places a placating hand on Detective Carolina’s shoulder. She sighs when the other woman shakes her off and keeps glaring. Her badge reads Detective Vanessa Kimball. “Carolina, please stop yelling at him. We need to take these guys into custody and get his statement.”

“Yeah, and that’ll be hard to do if you make him cry,” adds the other detective.

“I’m not going to cry!” Simmons says, his voice cracking. He blushes hotly as everyone left in the room stares at him.   

“Uh huh,” says the other detective, whose badge reads Detective David Washington. He doesn’t bother hiding his skepticism. He glances over at the bartender. “So, besides the obvious property damage, anything else to charge them with?”

The bartender shrugs. “Aggravated assault, probably. I called my boss. He’ll be able to get you the tape of the whole thing, be here in like thirty minutes. That guy--” He points at the one with magnetizing powers. “--started it, but the other guy did more damage. He destroyed a fucking hundred dollar bottle of scotch!”  

“Right,” Kimball says. She gestures and Simmons pushes the unresisting men forward as she and Washington start patting them down and checking for weapons.

“Um, I noticed the one has some sort of liquid manipulation power, and the other can control magnets, so,” Simmons says, trying to be helpful but fumbling as Detective Carolina continues to glare. “Um. Yeah. They’re really weak though.”

“Fuck you,” growls the guy with liquid manipulation powers.

Simmons feels slightly less awful when he realizes the power-nullifying handcuffs she and Washington use are based on a prototype one of his companies developed. He is helping the police, even if Detective Carolina disagrees.

In the end, it’s Detective Washington who takes his statement. Simmons answers all his questions, aware the entire time that Detective Carolina is still glaring at him. He’s so flustered he almost signs the statement with his real name. He gets as far as the D in Dick before he realizes. He hastily continues with a messy Doctor Stupendous. “How, um, often do they call heroes for trials here?” he asks. It varies from county to county, but he’s read conflicting reports for Blood Gulch City.

Washington shrugs. “Most courts don’t bother. It’s too much of a pain, and defense attorneys love to call that whole secret identity thing into question.” He grins suddenly. “You’re probably more likely to get called for jury duty with your real life identity.”

“Ha,” Simmons says with a weak laugh. Now he’s going to worry about jury summons. What if he gets called and something happens to the city while he’s doing his civic duty? What if he gets chosen for a long trial and can’t protect the city? Detective Carolina is still glaring. Simmons drops his voice to a whisper, “So, um, your partner. Is she...always like this with heroes or….?”

The smile fades from Washington’s face. “You guys are working outside the law. Of course she’s going to have a problem with vigilantism. I have a problem with it too, but hey, I figure you guys are gonna ignore us no matter what. Might as well let you help until you _really_ fuck it up.”

“Uh, right,” Simmons says. He tries to keep on a poker face even as he guiltily thinks about the truck. He coughs and takes a step towards the door, where some technicians are entering with cameras. “So I guess I’ll leave you to it…..”  

He hesitates, then waves at Kimball and Carolina. The former just raises an eyebrow at him, a neutral expression on her face, but the latter’s eyes narrow to slits. He beats a hasty retreat.

He gets to his apartment building, goes up two flights to his apartment, and sticks his now-cold and probably congealed Chinese food into the microwave. He leans tiredly against his counter, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head, his power instinctively theorizing on ways to up the effectiveness of the magnetron. He can’t decide if today was a success or a failure. On the one hand, he helped save a life. On the other hand, he dropped a truck into the harbor. On the other other hand, he’s got a civilian job. On the other other other hand, all of his coworkers suck.

“A mixed success, I guess,” he mumbles, and turns gratefully to the microwave as it beeps.


	3. The Strangest Foes of All Time... The Trio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons gets a first look at the city's menace, the Trio, who seem less menacing than advertised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the latest update! Major thanks to creatrixanimi who came up with the Trio's idiotic plan in this. :D And to Aryashi who looked it over and made some great suggestions.
> 
> Now that I've also plotted out the big arcs and figured out the other ships for this AU, I've decided to include those pairings as well as Grif/Simmons in the relationship tags. They all will also probably take til issue 26 for any kissing like Grimmons, so I guess enjoy like a half-dozen different slow-burn pairings!

Simmons is in the middle of breakfast when his cyborg eye flashes urgent breaking news.

_City Hall in Peril: Trio Holds Mayor and Civilians Hostage._

He chokes on his coffee. Sputtering, he grabs his phone, texting a hasty message to Sarge that he’s going to be late since that hostage situation at city hall is making traffic awful, but he’ll try to be in later. Then he runs.

When he gets to City Hall, there’s a barricade of police cars, their lights flashing but their sirens off. Multiple news vans form a partial circle the police cars. Simmons gives the latter a wide berth, in case Ms. Andrews is here.

He’s actually not sure who to talk to about offering his assistance. He remembers Detective Carolina's angry remarks, and doesn’t want to overstep, especially in a fraught scenario like this one. After a minute, he spies the other heroes in a cluster around a SWAT van. He heads off to them, relieved. They’ve probably handled this type of situation before. They’ll have a plan.

When he draws within hearing distance, he hears the Orange Blur say, “Five bucks it’s Moonboose.”

“You’re on!” Sergeant Blood says. “My money’s on Doctor Terrible. He never can keep his temper.”

“Come on,” In-and-Out says with a snort. “It’s totally gonna be Laserblade. Dude has a smaller attention span than his dick. Not that I've seen it, but the dude can't be hot, fight with a sexy laser sword, _and_ be hung, it's not fair to anyone else, you know what--”

“Are you placing bets on the hostage situation?” Simmons interrupts, sure he’s misheard or misunderstood. He also wants to stop In-and-Out's uncomfortable comments. He must have misheard. There’s no way they’d be treating this lightly, not with the mayor and multiple civilians under threat.

“Oh, hello, Professor Stupendous!” Magic Mouth says, giving him a little wave. “How’re you?” He doesn’t give Simmons a chance to respond, turning back to the group and adding, “I’ll throw in five on Moonboose. It’s a really nice day. He’s going to get distracted.”

“Seriously, are you guys placing bets on the hostage situation?” Simmons repeats. His voice rises, and this time the entire group looks at him. He flushes but stares back, appalled by their insensitivity. He knows that a lot of heroes get jaded over time, but this is ridiculous. “People are in danger!”

Orange Blur snorts. His fast talking has an edge of scorn. “Yeah, not really, everybody’s actually totally fine, these guys are doofs. Doofuses. No, doofs.”

“They’re holding the mayor hostage!” Simmons snaps, and then jumps as Doctor Pacifist appears beside him with a bright, “Hey, I got audio and a camera inside, anyone want to listen?”

“Wait, what?” Simmons asks, drowned out by a choruses of yeses. He resists the urge to put his hands on his hips as the heroes begin climbing into the nearby van. He calls after them, “So wait, you guys are able to get Doctor Pacifist inside, and you choose to put a camera inside instead of rescuing the hostages?!”

His fellow heroes ignore him. Instead a new voice drawls, “Don’t worry.” Simmons blinks at the nearest police officer, who grins and extends his hand. “Detective York. Nice to meet you, Professor Stupendous.”

“Um, hi,” Simmons says, shaking his hand.

“This is your first time dealing with the Trio, right?” When Simmons nods, York’s grin widens. “Yeah, okay. Hop into the van and watch what’s happening inside. I think you’ll see why no one’s too worried.”

It’s a tight squeeze in the van, everyone crowded around a single computer screen. The voices carry to Simmons’ ear as he leans over Sergeant Blood’s shoulder to try and watch the video.

“Why hasn’t anyone called to ask our demands?” a grouchy voice complains. Simmons squints. He can’t tell if it’s the computer screen, but Doctor Terrible’s outfit looks much less imposing than it does in black and white in the newspaper. In color it looks more like a bad cosplay of Megamind, with a black mask covering his face and without the blue skin.

“Good question,” says the man who has to be Laserblade, tossing a glowing blade idly between his hands. “Better question: what _are_ our demands?”

Doctor Terrible sputters. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“Uh, no, that’s why I’m asking,” Laserblade says. “Can we ask for pizza?”

“It’s nine-thirty in the goddamn morning, no, we’re not getting pizza.”

“Ugh, worst hostage situation ever,” Laserblade says.

Doctor Terrible’s reply is lost to the Orange Blur’s rambling. “Well, that’s a lie. You can get pizza day or night if you know where to look. See? Doctor Terrible is Doctor Dumbass. If they want pizza, they can get pizza. Hey, should we get pizza? Who wants pizza? I want pizza. Hey, Professor Stupendous, new guy, what kind of pizza do you like? You look like someone who likes boring pizza. You’re a cheese man, aren't you? Me, I love meat-lovers. Can’t go wrong with that. Can’t go wrong with sausage and fuck, I’m hungry--” There's a blur, a rush of wind in Simmons' ears, and then the Orange Blur has a half-eaten pizza slice in his hand.

Simmons stares at him. “Did you just steal someone’s pizza?”

“What? No, I left money on the counter! And a note!”

In-and-Out laughs. “Uh huh. And did you remember a tip?”

“Fuck,” the Orange Blur mutters, and vanishes again.

Simmons squints at the camera. He can see the hostages, eight of them, sitting on the floor side by side, with their hands on their heads and their legs crossed. “Where’s Moonboose?”

“Oh, he got hungry and was looking for a vending machine,” Doctor Pacifist says, and then one of the hostage looks up, surprise in the movement of her head, and Moonboose walks into view with a vending machine on his shoulder.

“Who’s hungry?” Moonboose asks, voice muffled by his astronaut helmet. He doesn’t wait for an answer, dropping the vending machine to the ground and smashing the glass. He does it easily, like the vending machine weighs nothing. “Oooh, Twix!”

“Uh, I’ll take a Twix,” says one of the hostages, and yelps as Moonboose throws a Twix at him. The candy flies out of sight.

Doctor Terrible sighs. “Moonboose, hand food to the hostages. Don’t give them concussions.” His voice changes, like he realizes he sounds half-concerned, and he growls, “I don’t want to deal with any whining. And the hostages don’t get candy! They’re hostages!”  

“But we’re hungry,” one of the hostages complains. “You ate my breakfast out of the fridge! It had my name on it and everything!”

Simmons blinks. The hostage doesn’t sound terrified. He sounds more annoyed than anything else, and definitely not in fear for his life.

“No one cares, Palomo,” one of his fellow hostages mutters. “Also? A leftover calzone from last night isn’t actually breakfast. It’s just sad.”

“Sad and delicious,” Laserblade says. “But seriously, dude, that’s not breakfast. You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack before you’re thirty. Make better choices.”

“Yeah, Palomo, take advice from the villain currently holding people hostage,” says the not-Palomo hostage.

“All of the hostages need to shut the fuck up,” Doctor Terrible says. He huffs, crossing his arms. “Seriously, why haven’t the cops called yet? They need to know our demands!”

“Oh, I have a demand!” Moonboose says around a mouthful of candy. “No babies allowed!”

There’s a pause. “Allowed where, Moonboose?” Doctor Terrible asks. He sounds like he regrets the question even as he asks it.

“In the city!” Moonboose says. It’s impossible to tell from this angle what his expression is behind that helmet screen, but his voice goes flat. “I hate babies.”

“Right. Yeah. We’re not...doing that,” Doctor Terrible says. “We’ll have _reasonable_ demands when they call. Like a million dollars.”

“If they call,” Laserblade mutters.  

“Why wouldn’t they call?” Doctor Terrible demands.

Laserblade shrugs. “If they were going to call, they probably would have already, right? Anyway, I saw some bagels in the break room. Want some? I bet I could toast them with my sword.”

Simmons leans over and whispers to Magic Mouth, “So, uh. I’m beginning to get the feeling that none of the hostages are in actual danger….”

Magic Mouth laughs. “Yeah, not really. I mean, unless Moonboose accidentally drops the vending machine on someone or something!”

“Dude, fuck you. I’m standing right here,” the Orange Blur says. “I could stop it. I mean, unless I was distracted. Or it happened when I was off getting pizza. Fuck, now I want more pizza, but I can't leave. Stupid Moonboose's stupid vending machine. No, wait, I could eat some candy--” He blurs and returns, ripping open a bag of chips, clearly stolen from the broken vending machine.

Simmons is beginning to get a headache from sheer irritation. He says, very flatly, “You could run in and start grabbing all the hostages if you wanted, couldn't you.”

The Orange Blur shrugs. "Technically, yeah, but eight is a lot. Like, one, two, three, easy peasy, but eight? The Trio would catch on before I could get all of them out, even if In-and-Out helped. Anyway, raising my bet to ten bucks on Moonboose."

“Wait, you guys already placed bets on who’s leaving first?” Doctor Pacifist says, a pout in his voice. “I was going to go with Doctor Terrible. He’s really grouchy this morning!”

“Too late,” In-and-Out says. She leans closer to the screen. Simmons is pretty sure she’s staring at Laserblade in his aquamarine costume and cape. His suspicions are confirmed when she sighs and adds, “God, Laserblade is fucking hot. I need to give him the name of my tailor, get him a costume that shows off his ass--”

“No. Nope,” the Orange Blur interrupts. “Not happening, never fucking ever. No talking to Laserblade unless you’re beating him up, and even then, don’t fucking flirt with him. He’s a villain!”

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Magic Mouth says severely. “You can’t deny the thrill of a forbidden romance.”

“Yeah, my _heart_ wants him,” In-and-Out says with a snicker. “Totally.”

“Fuck!” Doctor Terrible shouts. “Do they think we’re a fucking joke?”

Laserblade shrugs. “Uh, yeah. Pretty sure they do.”

Doctor Terrible growls and turns and kicks a trash can. It goes bouncing harmlessly away, nowhere near any of the hostages, but one of them still protests with a, “Please, there’s no call for that. We have a limited budget for villain-related property damage, and most of that is already going to the vending machine. And our front door. You didn’t need to destroy that, you know, it was unlocked--”

Simmons recognizes that slightly anxious voice. It’s the mayor, who sounds more worried about the budget than his own safety.

“Ugh, whatever. Maybe we should go. We could screw with the traffic lights, make them regret ignoring us.”

“Oh, please, don’t,” the mayor says. He flushes when both the villains and his fellow hostages stare at him. “I mean, um, honestly this is less stressful than dealing with angry constituents, especially if you’re going to mess with traffic again. I think you could earn the police’s respect by holding us hostage a while longer! And as the Bard once said,  Respect is one of life's greatest treasures.”

“I can’t believe you consider this a vacation,” says the not-Palomo hostage. He turns to Palomo. “Dude, please kill me if I ever suggest running for office. Being an intern here sucks ass. This is the least boring shit that’s happened in a month.”

“That wasn’t Shakespeare,” Laserblade says to Mayor Doyle. “That was Marilyn Monroe.” Doctor Terrible stares at him, and he says, slightly defensive, “What? She’s hot!”

“Oh, my mistake. I could’ve sworn he said something to that effect….”

“Um, Mr. Moonboose, sir?” a tentative voice says. “Could I ask you a question?”

“Okay!” Moonboose says. He holds up a finger and wiggles it in the hostage’s direction. “But it can’t be about my real name, because Doctor Terrible says that’s a secret.”

“Uh, okay. I was going to ask: you have powers to affect gravity, right? Make stuff float?”

“Yes,” Moonboose says happily, and demonstrates by touching the vending machine. It immediately starts to float towards the ceiling.

“Uh, yeah. That’s cool,” the hostage says, staring up with wide eyes. “So it’s my sister’s birthday this weekend? I was wondering if you could make kids float in a bouncy house?”

“What?” Doctor Terrible snaps. “Do you seriously think--”

“Is your sister a baby?” Moonboose asks. “I don’t like babies.”

“Um, she’s turning seven.”

Moonboose turns to Doctor Terrible. “C-- Doctor Terrible, are you a baby if you are seven?”

“No,” Doctor Terrible growls. Then he sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Also, we’re charging ten bucks per kid if you actually want to do this.”

Moonboose jumps up and down. “Okay!”

“What the fuck, Matthews,” not-Palomo whispers. “You just invited supervillains to your sister’s birthday? Your mom is gonna kill you.”

“Aw, I think it’s sweet,” says one of the other hostages, lisping a little from her braces.

“Ugh, fuck this,” Doctor Terrible says. “Moonboose, put the vending machine down. We’re leaving.”

Sergeant Blood chuckles. He shifts his gun and holds out a hand as In-and-Out and the Orange Blur groan in dismay. “Pay up, fellas. I told you, the man doesn’t have a lick of patience.”

“I really thought it was going to be Moonboose,” Magic Mouth sighs as he hands over his money.

Simmons stares. This doesn’t feel like the end of a hostage situation. It feels more like an end of a weird parody of a superhero movie. He frowns, beginning to wonder if maybe he’d misunderstood the level of danger Blood Gulch City was in. “Is this what happens every time they try to take over the city? This, uh, ineffectiveness?”  

“You mean them being dumbasses?” Detective York says from the back of the van. “Yeah.”

Doctor Pacifist nods in agreement. “Pretty much!”

Simmons’ cyborg eye helpfully pulls up multiple headlines and news clips about the havoc the Trio is wrecking upon the city. His frown deepens. “But the newspapers make it seem like--”

In-and-Out laughs. “The newspapers want to sell. Of course they’re going to make them seem like actual menaces instead of just hot pain-in-our-asses.” She pauses, then makes a face. “They _do_ seriously fuck with traffic though.”

“And they did just steal a lot of food and cause some property damage! They’re very rude!” Doctor Pacifist adds.

Sergeant Blood chuckles. “Son, if eating everyone’s food makes someone a supervillain, then the Orange Blur must be the most diabolical villain in the universe!” There’s the faint humming sound as he charges his weapon. “And I’ll be here, waiting for him to reveal his true motives so I can take him down.”

The Orange Blur sighs. “I’d be offended but honestly that’s fair. Not about the supervillain stuff, nah, that’s bullshit, and way too much work, but stealing people’s food? Yeah. I steal stuff from the wine and cheese parties every time. Fuck, now I want cheese.”

“Wait, is _that_ why my restaurant bills are always so high?” Magic Mouth demands, blinking wide, shocked eyes behind his mask. “You’ve been secretly ordering extra food and what, taking it home with you?”

“Uh, yeah? Like you can’t afford it, Mr. Endorsement Man. Not that you’re as good with endorsements as In-and-Out, but you can afford it. Go cry into your money vault.”

“I’m not Scrooge McDuck,” Magic Mouth says crossly.

Doctor Terrible waits until Moonboose sets the vending machine down and then reaches in and snags a few candy bars. “Well, we got literally nothing done except for stealing food and someone hiring Moonboose to be a clown or some shit for their moon bounce, so I guess we’ll categorize this one as an epic failure.”

Laserblade snorts. “Yeah, like we have any other category? We fucking suck, dude. I keep telling you, we should get advice from some other villains. I vote for a hot lady villain--”

“No,” Doctor Terrible says, and there’s something about the toneless way he says it that gets Simmons’ attention. Maybe it’s because he’s not screeching or cursing, or being overly dramatic anymore. He actually sounds dangerous, his voice cold as ice when he warns, “This is _my_ city. No other villains allowed.”

Laserblade doesn’t say anything. For a second, everything’s quiet.

Then Moonboose bounces up and down and makes the ground shake, judging by the way both Laserblade and Doctor Terrible yelp and almost fall over. Moonboose claps his hands. “Is the moon bounce named after me? That is so nice! I am so excited!”

“Well, er, if you gentlemen are truly finished, would you mind leaving out the front doors which you already ruined...or you could do that instead.” The mayor whimpers faintly as Laserblade swaggers over to the far wall and cuts a door-shaped hole through the windows. “Oh dear. I am _not_ looking forward to this month’s budgetary meeting…..”

“So are we going to try to stop them?” Simmons asks as the Trio disappears from view. He’s scarcely finished the sentence when Detective York’s walkie-talkie crackles and a voice says, “We’ve got eyes on the Trio. Moonboose is making them float and they’re flying now.”  

Sergeant Blood snorts. “You don’t shoot a man in the back, Professor Stupendous! It ain’t sporting! You wait until he’s actually willing to fight, and then you shoot him in the face!” He pauses, and adds hopefully, “Or shoot him through the heart with your laser eye.”

Simmons sighs.  “Sir, my eye doesn’t shoot lasers.”

Sergeant Blood nods. “Right. Right. Not yet, anyways! Aw, I bet you’re working on it as a surprise for me!”

“I,” Simmons says, and then stops. He learned the hard way that lasers are an antithesis to the sensors for his limbs, and that it’s impossible to have both at once. He debates explaining that to Sergeant Blood, but judging by the other hero’s broad grin Sergeant Blood won’t believe him. “Yeah. You caught me, sergeant. It might never work, but I’m trying.”

“So, mister mayor,” the not-Palomo guy says on the video. “Speaking of the budget. I have a question. Since we were just in, like, danger, is hazard pay included for interns?”

“No,” Mayor Doyle says slowly. “No, Bitters, I don’t believe it is.”

“Ugh, this job sucks.”

“Well, I guess I’ll go untie them,” In-and-Out says. She disappears and reappears in front of the former hostage with the braces. She bends down and grins. “Hey, cutie, need a hand? Or my number?”

The woman blinks at her. Even with the video it’s easy to see the way her entire face turns pink. “Oh. Um…. Hi,” she says a little breathlessly, and then blinks again. “Wait, do you give out your real phone number? That doesn’t seem safe. What if the Trio got a hold of it? They'd learn your civilian identity!”

“Come on, bitch, I’m not stupid. I have a burner phone for my hero shit. How else am I supposed to get those sweet endorsements? But the burner is also designed for cute girls’ numbers.”

Bitters snickers. “Hey, Palomo, I think In-and-Out is stealing your girlfriend.”

“Jensen’s not my girlfriend,” Palomo says with a squeak.

“Right, right. Stealing your _crush._ ”  

“In-and-Out, priorities,” the Orange Blur says. “Priorities being actually untying people before you hit on them. Or you could untie her and not flirt. Hooking up with hero groupies just makes them all think they have a chance. They don’t. Most of them don’t. Okay, a few of them do, but--”

“Thanks, bitch,” In-and-Out says, giving Jensen a kiss on the cheek as Jensen hands her back her phone. She turns to the Orange Blur. “Sorry, were you saying something important, or were you bitching about me getting laid?”  

Simmons blinks. From what he’s read about In-and-Out and the Orange Blur, the general consensus is that they’re dating. Simmons hasn’t spent much time with either of them, but this doesn’t feel like that kind of relationship. Then again, he guesses the Orange Blur is acting a bit jealous. Maybe they’re in some sort of open relationship and the Orange Blur is annoyed that his girlfriend gets more dates than he does? It _is_ 2019\. Simmons can be cool about that. It’s not weird at all. People do this sort of thing all the time now. It’s totally normal. Nothing to be weirded out about at all. Simmons can support his new teammates with-- in their lifestyle!

“Are you okay there, buddy?” Detective York asks. “You’re looking a little flushed.”

“I’m fine,” Simmons says, a little strangled. His face is hot. “Um, looks like In-and-Out and the Orange Blur have it handled, so I’m just gonna--” He waves vaguely towards the door.

Magic Mouth beams at him. “See you next time!”

“Yeah, next time,” Simmons says.

As he walks away, it sinks in that he accomplished nothing today. He didn’t help at all! And neither did most of his fellow heroes. He remembers most of the group standing around at the tractor-trailer incident too. Do they all just come to an incident and spend half their time standing around? It seems like a waste of valuable time.

Maybe he could come up with a way of private communication, so whoever’s first on the scene can contact the others and let them know if it’s all hands on deck. His powers start buzzing, offering up a few ideas, some outlandish, some more reasonable. The itch settles into the spot between his shoulder-blades. He rubs at it absently, though he knows it’s all in his head. He’ll come up with something.


	4. Introducing TeamUp, the App of the Empowered Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic Mouth saves the day, Simmons learns a valuable lesson about underestimating people's powers, and Caboose breaks a keyboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go out to Aryashi for looking this over for me! 
> 
> The art for Simmons/Professor Stupendous is by the amazing [creatrixanimi](http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com)!

The itch between Simmons’ shoulder-blades lingers. The problem is that there are so many variables that he doesn’t know how to narrow anything down to a useful concept at first. His brain is perfectly content to throw ideas at him, and less helpful in figuring out which ones would actually work. What would the heroes even want? A specialized phone? An app? He settles on an app, since he doubts anyone wants to juggle two phones besides In-and-Out.

The plan is this: an app that establishes a private channel between him and the other heroes, and creates quick alert features like All Hands on Deck or Already Handled. He builds the code for the app, tinkering with it until he’s satisfied that it’s prepared to go into the field on a trial basis. He’ll propose they use it for a week or two, and then he can fix any unexpected problems. In the privacy of his apartment, his powers settling down, he allows himself a giddy smile. They’re going to be so impressed.

He holds onto the surprise for the next time the heroes all meet up, which ends up being a convenience store robbery. Normally the police could handle it, but this one devolves into a hostage situation and gets tricky when the empowered robber creates an obscuring fog.

With his powers, Magic Mouth is the obvious hero to go in as a negotiator. “Aw, I’m so happy to help! I’ll talk this guy down!” he says, putting a Bluetooth speaker in his ear so that the police and other heroes can listen in. Then he strikes what’s probably supposed to be a heroic pose and looks more like he’s seen too many episodes of Sailor Moon.

Detective Kimball sighs. “Magic Mouth, we don’t know if this guy is a career criminal or if he’s just some stupid kid in over his head. Be careful. And please put this bullet-proof vest on before you go inside.”

Magic Mouth laughs. “But that would ruin the line of my suit.”

“...Please put this bullet-proof vest on before you go inside,” Kimball repeats.

Simmons frowns, wondering if he should interject and encourage Magic Mouth to put on the vest or if he’s still too new to the team to side with a police officer. And that’s a worrying thought, Magic Mouth going in defenseless except for his powers. None of the heroes have defensive powers that protect them from bullets. Sure, the Orange Blur can probably outrun one if he knows he’s being shot at, or In-and-Out can teleport out of range, but-- He wonders if there’s a way to work with the costumes and make them Kevlar-like without damaging the usability.

He almost misses Kimball add, “Or at least try to negotiate out here with a megaphone.”

“You know I have a better chance of success inside, up close and personal,” Magic Mouth says with a dismissive hand wave. “Let’s not take chances when hostages are involved!”

Kimball sighs again when Magic Mouth winks at her and saunters towards the front door. She turns up her radio as he disappears into the fog, loud enough that they can all hear Magic Mouth quietly humming to himself.

The humming stops. Then Magic Mouth says, voice warm and friendly, “Hi! I’m Magic Mouth. You may have seen me on a billboard or two!” Simmons can just picture Magic Mouth’s bright smile and wink. “I’m here to see if we can figure something out. Do you want to talk about what’s going on?” There’s no verbal response, but Magic Mouth must see some reaction, because he adds smoothly, “Or if you don’t, that’s totally okay! Right now I’m just wondering where you plan to go from here. Especially with all these hostages! There’s so many of them, they’re hard to keep track of, aren't they? Maybe it would be a good idea if you let a few leave. I mean, that one lady has a baby. He's behaving now, but do you want to deal with a crying baby in a couple minutes? I know I don’t!”

Simmons frowns, wondering when Magic Mouth is going to use his powers. He doesn’t hear anything different from Magic Mouth’s usual voice, just the same warm friendliness. But he must be doing something, because the robber says slowly, “Yeah, I didn’t-- hostages weren’t the plan. This was just supposed to be quick.”

“They’re making everything so much more complicated,” Magic Mouth agrees sympathetically. “So why not let them go?”

“Yeah, they’re just complications. They can go.”

“Great! You heard the gentleman, everyone! Up on your feet and out that front door, please!”

“Sergeant Blood, stay back,” Kimball says as Sergeant Blood sidles closer to the foggy entrance of the store.

“Just making sure the hostages are safe, ma’am!” he calls over his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice the way the hostages look even more alarmed to stumble out of the fog and see him with his gun at the ready.

“Oh, did I miss the whole thing?” Doctor Pacifist asks, wheezing a little as he jogs up beside Simmons. “There was a car crash downtown, it took me forever to get around it.”  

Simmons nods. “Yeah, Magic Mouth got the civilians out--”

“Wait,” the robber says in a different tone from before. “I didn’t-- why did I-- could’ve kept _one_.” That has Kimball frowning and signalling at Sergeant Blood a second before the guy snarls, “Oh, you fucking-- _Fuck_ , I hate heroes!”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Magic Mouth says. He still sounds sympathetic, but there’s a tension in his voice that has Kimball signalling even more grimly. “But do you _really_ want to point that gun at me?”

There’s a long pause, in which Simmons starts mentally cursing and wondering where the fuck In-and-Out and the Orange Blur are, and then the robber snorts. “Yeah, I really fucking do. And you know what else? I _really_ want to sho--”

Sergeant Blood disappears into the fog. A second later there’s a faint light and Kimball’s radio crackles with a sound that Simmons has only heard in news clips: the discharge of Sergeant Blood’s space gun. It fires a second time. _Tseeew!_

Magic Mouth laughs shakily. “Thank you, Sergeant! Bloodstains would have ruined this fabric.” He waits a beat and adds, “That _was_ set to stun, right? Otherwise Detective Kimball’s going to get mad!”

“Course it was,” Sergeant Blood says gruffly, just as In-and-Out pops into the space between Simmons and Doctor Pacifist.

A heartbeat later there’s a rush of sound and the Orange Blur is there too, arms folded against his chest. He glances around. “Don’t blame me for being late. I was asleep,” he says defensively. “A man’s got to sleep sometimes! It’s not my fault assholes always have the worst timing, like they can never just chill for a night, you can never just take a goddamn nap--”

“Magic Mouth almost got _shot_!” Simmons says, and only realizes he’s shouted when everyone stares at him. He flushes. “It’s just-- Detective Kimball is right, we should wear more protective gear or something--”

“Fashion comes first, Professor!” Magic Mouth says cheerfully. He’s apparently bounced back from his close call, because he waves at In-and-Out and the Orange Blur and says, “Boy, you guys missed this guy being a total jerk!”

“Magic Mouth, are you okay?” Doctor Pacifist asks worriedly. “Having a gun pointed at you is quite a shock. Do you want me to get you some orange juice or one of those emergency heating blankets or something?”

Detective Kimball and a few other officers head into the store. Now that the fog’s dissipated Simmons can see the slumped form of the would-be robber and the faint smoke coming from what looks, when Simmons zeros in with his cyborg eye, like the half-melted remnants of a pistol.

Magic Mouth shakes his head. His voice is bright and there’s only the faintest tremor to it as he sighs and says, “No, but that was _way_ too close a call. Imagine getting blood all over my costume! The dry cleaning bill alone! Never mind figuring out how to actually get it to the dry cleaners without revealing my secret identity--” He pauses and taps a finger against his lips, looking thoughtful. “Maybe I should get a spare costume….”

“ _That’s_ what you’re taking away from this?” Simmons asks in disbelief. His concern gives way to irritation. Doesn’t Magic Mouth have any common sense and self-preservation at all? “I think Detective Kimball has a point about wearing bulletproof vests!”

“Make it fashionable, and then we’ll talk,” Magic Mouth says.

Simmons is about to argue when he remembers the app. “Oh! Before everyone leaves, I made--” He pulls out his phone. Excitement and nervous pride flutter in his stomach. “I made an app for the team, to help with communication.”

There’s silence. Then Sergeant Blood, gun propped against his shoulder, asks, “Son, what in the Sam Hill are you jabbering on about?”

Simmons takes a breath. He’s not explaining this right, he thinks, and tries to get his thoughts in order. “I noticed there are lots of times when everyone shows up for an incident, but their powers can’t really help and they just waste their time. What would happen if two incidents are happening at once, like maybe this hostage situation and a bank robbery or something? I thought maybe it’d be helpful to have everyone have a secure way to communicate and coordinate with the team, so I made an app, similar to Whatsapp. It’s, um, a cross-platform messaging and Voice over IP service, but private and inaccessible to anyone without the app. I call it TeamUp.” He pulls it up on his phone and shows it to the group. “See? So if you were first on scene, and knew you needed Magic Mouth to talk to someone, but that Doctor Pacifist’s powers would be useless, you could send out an alert that you need Magic Mouth only.”  

He’s not expecting applause. Maybe hoping for it a little. But all he gets is a round of long, stares and the heroes glancing at each other.

Sergeant Blood coughs. “An app? Ain’t that just shorthand for appetizers?”

“No, it means--”

“Professor,” Magic Mouth says, and Simmons looks at him, still hopeful that maybe Magic Mouth gets what he’s trying to do. Magic Mouth smiles brightly. “Wow, you made an app for just us? That’s so nice of you! You'd _tell_ us if it could do anything else, right?”  

Simmons resists the urge to beam, relieved that at least Magic Mouth seems excited. “Of course I would! In fact, I have a few more ideas to improve the app, but I wanted to start with the basics first, get some thoughts from you guys before I did anything else.”

Magic Mouth nods. “Like what? If there was an emergency or something, the app could track us? It would know our location, right? Since it would be on our phones?”

Simmons frowns. He’d wanted to work his way up to the idea, but Magic Mouth sounds so interested it’s impossible not to answer the question. “Well, it could if you wanted it to. I _was_ thinking of including an option to send out your location if you were in danger….”

“Wow!” Magic Mouth says again. His voice is soothing and friendly, and Simmons feels another wave of relieved happiness that Magic Mouth is so interested. “That’s such a nice thing to do when we’re still practically strangers. I mean, we only just met and you’re already making these neat apps for us. Why would you do that?”

Simmons almost frowns at the ‘practically strangers’ comment. He thought they’d accepted him as part of the team. He keeps the hurt out of his voice as he answers. “I made it because I want to contribute to the team and also I _really_ want you all to like me!”

There’s another pause. Simmons replays the last sentence back in his head. That wasn’t--

In-and-Out snorts. “Wow, dude. Someone’s a needy bitch.”

Simmons blinks at her. “I-- what? Wait.” His stomach drops like a rock. He stares at Magic Mouth. “Were you--”

Magic Mouth holds up both hands and shrugs. He sounds genuinely apologetic, or maybe that’s just his powers making Simmons want to hear honesty where there isn’t any. “Sorry! We just had to check your motives.”

“Why, what with the Trio declaring war on all other villains around, I wouldn’t put it past one to play-act as a hero and trick us all!” Sergeant Blood adds. “It’d be absolutely diabolical!”

Simmons’ stomach hurts. “You guys thought I was a _villain_?”  

In-and-Out says, “Don’t be a baby about it. You show up and call yourself a hero of the city out of the blue, try to be all buddy buddy with us, and now you’re showing us some app that could track us and hella compromise our civilian identities.”

"Your costume is well designed and looks amazingly put together, unlike other heroes I could mention," Magic Mouth says, and follows up the compliment with, "But it's also very...well...2001? As in, A Space Odyssey? When we first met I kept wanting to call you Hal!"  

“You were shady as fuck, dude,” the Orange Blur says. “Like, seriously sketchy. I never agree with Sergeant Blood, and we both thought you were weird. We didn’t know you were, like, just desperate for approval.”

“I just wanted to help,” Simmons says and decides to stop talking when his voice cracks. He’s glad his face is hidden by his mask; he can feel the miserable heat in his face. He can’t even argue, because looking at his actions over the past week does seem suspicious.  He makes a show of looking at his wrist, even though he’s not wearing a watch. “Well, looks like Detective Kimball has everything in hand, I’m just gonna-- I’ll-- Yeah.”

He’s braced for In-and-Out or the Orange Blur to stop him, but it’s Magic Mouth who takes a few steps closer and says, “Wait a sec! Don’t run off all hot and bothered! If we _were_ interested in the app, how would we download it? Not right now because I only have a civilian phone, but later?”

Simmons licks his lips behind the mask. He’s still embarrassed and hurt, but there’s a spark of hope there too, that everyone will give TeamUp a try and see how useful it will be. “Um, I have a private server….” He rattles off the URL and then adds, flushing, “The password is, um, communication, all lowercase.”

“Great!”

“Yeah,” Simmons says weakly. “Great.” This time when he flees, no one comes after him.

It almost makes him feel better when he gets home and logs in to see two downloads of the app. The keyword being almost.

 

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

Simmons isn’t sulking. He’s not. He totally understands where the other heroes were coming from, and their suspicions were justified and reasonable. His feelings are a bit bruised, but now he’s passed their test, hasn’t he? They’ll download the app, and realize he’s useful and-- It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.

What _isn’t_ fine is his office chair, which keeps sinking towards the floor every five or ten minutes. One minute Simmons will be positioned exactly the way he prefers at his desk, his wrists at an angle to prevent carpal tunnel, and the next he’ll feel the chair begin to shift. “What the fuck?” he grumbles after thirty minutes of this. He gets up and squints at the chair. It’s too low-tech for his powers to notice, so he winds up just poking at it until he realizes there’s a missing screw. Also that this isn’t his original chair. He turns and glares. “Grif, did you steal my chair?”

Grif has his feet up on his desk. Simmons is going to burn those ugly orange flip flops someday. He doesn’t look at Simmons. “Harsh accusation, dude. Where’s your evidence?”

“My evidence is the Cheetos stains on the arm rests.”

Grif shrugs. “Sounds circumstantial to me. Maybe you broke your chair and you’re just embarrassed that you broke shit your first week here.”

Simmons growls. “Give me back my chair!”

“I don’t see your name on it,” Grif says.

For a few blissful seconds, Simmons imagines strangling him. The frustrations of the night before churn in his stomach, and he knows he’s going to start yelling if he keeps up this argument. He says through gritted teeth, “The chair’s missing a screw. Do I go through Sarge to order a replacement?”

“You can.” Grif lets Simmons get almost to Sarge’s office door before he adds, “It’s probably easier and faster just to grab the spare chair from across the hall, though.”

Simmons stops. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. “Why didn’t _you_ do that?”

“Uh, because those dudes are annoying as fuck. Well, Caboose is okay. But seriously, I just try not to talk to them. But yeah, they have a spare chair. They had another guy working there, but he quit or died or something.”  

“Died?” Simmons echoes, and Grif shrugs.

“Or something. Plus I’ve never seen Caboose use his chair ever.”

He goes across the hall and enters a disaster zone. Tucker’s chair is on the ground, and he’s hauling himself to his feet, rubbing at his shoulder and snapping, “Goddamnit, Caboose, take a fucking joke!”

“It’s not a joke if it’s not funny!” Caboose snaps, seated on the desk. His face is flushed, and he looks surprisingly intense as he scowls. The anger momentarily disappears when he spots Simmons. He waves. “Hi, Mr. Simon!”

“It’s Simmons,” Simmons corrects absently. He glances at Church, who is leaning back in his chair, his arm across his eyes, looking completely done with the day even though it’s only 9:45. “Uh, what….?”

Caboose scowls. “Tucker kept saying he told his son that the moon is made of cheese. It’s not made of cheese! He shouldn’t lie to his son about the moon! What if his son goes to the moon and finds out it’s not made of cheese, and is super sad Tucker lied to him?”

“I was kidding, Caboose!” Tucker says. He rolls his eyes. “Fuck I hate this goddamn place.” Then he turns, and the intensity of his glare is enough that Simmons takes a half-step back towards the hallway before he realizes what he’s doing. “And what the fuck did you do to my laptop? I can’t watch porn anymore!”

Simmons blinks at him, genuinely confused before he remembers the filters and control he installed on the laptop. He tries to hold onto that confused look. “Wow, that’s just so weird. I have no idea what happened. I guess you’ll just have to do your work or something.”

Church snickers. “Yeah, Tucker. Do your work.”  

Tucker gives him the finger and then refocuses his glare on Simmons. “Why the fuck are you even here? Spying for Sarge? Did he con you into believing that office competition bullshit?”

“No,” Simmons says. “One of our chairs broke and Grif said you guys have a spare one.” He pauses, fighting and losing to morbid curiosity, and adds, “He said something about your coworker dying…?”

“Who?” Church says blankly, and then snaps his fingers and nods. “Oh, right, Flowers! That was one weird dude. I don’t think he’s dead. I think he just quit.” He shrugs. “Sure, take the chair.”

“Thanks!” Simmons says. Then he narrows his eyes. He remembers their last encounter, and compares it to this one. “Wait, why was this so easy? Don’t you want something in exchange?”

Church smirks. “Nope. Whatever you did to Tucker’s laptop is ruining his life, and that deserves a reward.”

“Fuck you guys,” Tucker says.

Simmons is pushing the chair towards the door when Caboose says sadly, “Tucker broke my keyboard.”

Tucker snorts. “Oh, yeah, I broke your keyboard when you pushed me out of my chair.”

“Exactly,” Caboose says.

Simmons tries to ignore the conversation, but now that he knows the keyboard is damaged, he can feel it, the pressure at his back clamoring for his attention. He grits his teeth as Church says, “Hey, dude, changed my mind. You can have the chair if you fix Caboose’s keyboard.”

Simmons turns reluctantly. He winces. Even at a glance he can tell the keyboard hit the floor at the worst possible angle. He taps his fingers against his leg, trying to ignore the urge to fix it, and says, “That wasn’t the deal.”

“It’s the deal now,” Church says, smirking. “Do you want the chair or not?”

Simmons takes the keyboard from Caboose, who smiles hopefully at him. Now that he’s looking at the keyboard, he can see it won’t be any easy repair. The circuit board is cracked. In fact, plain, ordinary, slightly tech savvy Dick Simmons can’t fix it. He’ll need his specialized tools at his apartment.

“What’s with the face?” Tucker asks.

Simmons realizes that he’s grinding his teeth. He forces himself to relax. “I can’t fix it,” he says slowly.

“Well, fuck,” Church says. He shrugs. “Worth a shot.” He starts to reach for the keyboard, and blinks when Simmons instinctively holds it to his chest.

“I, uh, do some repair work on the side,” Simmons lies. “Can’t fix it, but I can reuse the parts.”

Church blinks and then grins. “Stealing office supplies? You might be the most interesting dude across the hall.”

“I’m not--” Simmons bites off the rest of his protest. He backs up to the door and says, “I’m still taking the chair.”

“Whatever,” Church says, still grinning.

When Simmons returns with the chair and keyboard, Sarge gives him a half-approving nod. Simmons sighs when he says, “Stealing valuable supplies from the enemy? Excellent work!”

Simmons debates trying to argue that he wasn’t stealing, and gives up. “Uh, thank you, sir.”

Once he’s back at his desk, the broken keyboard placed aside to take home, he tries to concentrate on work. The itch grows and intensifies between his shoulder-blades, the urge to fix right now, this very instant clamoring in his head until he can barely concentrate on the audio. He scratches awkwardly at his back, though he knows from previous experience the itch is mostly in his head.

A finger prods him in the shoulder. He blinks, lowering his headphones in time to catch Grif's question. “What, did you roll around in poison ivy?”  

Simmons flushes. “No,” he snaps. “I just, uh-- the tag is bothering me, I guess.” It’s a stupid excuse, but at least Grif seems to buy it, rolling his eyes.

“Dude, just cut it off if it’s that bad.”

Simmons clings to the lie. “But then I wouldn’t know the washing instructions!”

“Whatever. You’re making me itchy just sitting next to you.”

“Then don’t look at me,” Simmons says waspishly. He puts his headphones on, hunches over his keyboard, and pointedly ignores Grif. The itchiness keeps spreading. By the time his shift is over, he feels like he’s rolled in poison ivy like Grif suggested. It’s hard to focus, to get the keyboard out to his car, to concentrate on the road and make it safely back to his apartment. Every time he hits a red light, he curses and scratches at his arms and grinds his teeth.

As soon as he’s out of sight of his neighbors, he runs. He places the keyboard on his work station, rolls up his sleeves, and gets straight to work. The itchy feeling lessens the instant he starts focusing on repairs, though it’s still there, lingering, as he slowly and carefully repairs the circuit board. He knows it’s fixed when the itchiness vanishes. The sudden relief makes him catch his breath and close his eyes for a second. Fuck, sometimes his powers were annoying.

His stomach pinches at him. He needs to eat dinner. Simmons stands up, stretching out his stiff back, and then remembers the TeamUp app. His stomach pinches at him again, but curiosity wins out.

When he logs into the server, he catches his breath again. They’ve all downloaded the app, even Sergeant Blood, who Simmons had begun to wonder even owned a smartphone. The tension and frustrations of the day melt off him. He blinks, his eyes prickling. They downloaded the app. That’s a sign of trust, isn’t it? He squashes down the feelings of relief. It’s a good first step. He’s going still have to re-evaluate his superhero plan. He’s missed a few steps along the way, namely winning the team’s complete trust. The TeamUp app is a good start.

He locks the whole server down, closes the sign-up site, and hopes the app is actually useful.


	5. A Villainous Diversion!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Stupendous puts the TeamUp app into action. The Trio cause some late-night havoc. Grif and Simmons talk super powers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go out to Aryashi as always for looking this over for me! 
> 
> Also please enjoy creatrixianimi's [amazing art](https://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/184947664912/here-are-some-various-costume-design-doodles-ive) of most of the cast so far! 
> 
> There might be a brief hiatus, unless I finish the next chapter faster than I thought. I'm going on vacation Thursday through the following Wednesday and will be pretty busy.

****The alert wakes Simmons up out of a sound sleep, his cyborg eye twitching simultaneously with his phone buzzing on his desk. He blinks his eyes open, wincing first at the time -- 3:26 AM -- and then as his cyborg eye replays the message, the words uncomfortably bright in the dark room.

 _Reported sighting of Laserblade on the corner of 17th and E, destroying stoplights and working his way south_.

“Why,” he grumbles to no one, but then wakes up more with a burst of nervous excitement. Now’s the best time to show what TeamUp can really do. He fumbles for his phone and texts the group: _Laserblade is on the corner of 17th and E and heading south. He’s destroying stoplights. Anyone else awake to help stop him?_

For a minute there’s no answer, and then Simmons’ phone chimes repeatedly with a series of texts.

_**The Orange Blur:** dude tell me you weren’t awake listening to a police scanner like a weirdo _

_also fuck laserblade and his fucking hard-on for fucking up traffic wtf_

_who the fuck commits crimes at ass o’clock in the morning_

_i’m gonna kick his ass_

There’s a string of emojis that Simmons can’t parse, but they all seem angry. He’s about to reply when his phone chimes again, another series of messages from the Orange Blur.

_laserblade is by himself that's weird that's really weird_

_it’s not just me that’s weird right_

_where are the other dumbasses_

_i’ll be there in a sec,_ In-and-Out says.

A new alert pops up. Simmons frowns and sends a second message. _Moonboose is downtown, destroying an office building located on Frost and 27th Street. I’m closer to him, but I’ll need backup._

 _I’m in that neck of the woods!_ Magic Mouth says, followed by a different string of emojis that are mostly lips smiling and a few thumb up symbols.

Simmons grimaces at his phone. Then he sighs. Backup is backup, no matter how awkward this is probably going to be, and now matter how embarrassed he still is about Magic Mouth using his powers on him. _Thank you, Magic Mouth_. _My ETA is about fifteen minutes._

_**Magic Mouth:** See you there, Professor! _

When Simmons gets there, Moonboose is carefully breaking off fistfuls of the building and then throwing the broken pieces up in the air, cheering when they crash down onto the pavement. When he spies Simmons, he waves. “Hello, new superhero whose name I definitely didn’t forget. Did you want to throw some rocks? Doctor Terrible says you’re strong with your arm. I bet you could throw them really high!”

Simmons blinks. “Uh, no thanks?”

“Okay,” Moonboose says cheerfully, and then pries another piece of the building off and throws it. The building groans alarmingly, swaying.

“Wow, Moonboose! I have to admit, it’s a _little_ early for one of Doctor Terrible’s schemes,” Magic Mouth says, approaching from the other end of the street. “You’ve ruined my beauty sleep, you fiend.” He laughs as he says the last bit. Even listening intently, Simmons can’t figure out if he’s just being friendly or using his powers. Probably the latter, because he looks around at the shattered stone and says, “You’re sure causing a ruckus! And so is Laserblade, it sounds like.”

Moonboose pauses mid-throw. His expression is hidden by the reflective glare of a nearby lamp on his helmet, but he sounds worried. “I’m causing a bigger ruckus though? Than Laserblade?”

Simmons takes advantage of his distraction to sidle closer, trying to get a better look at the building and its compromised integrity. There shouldn’t be anyone around, but there might be a security guard or something inside.

Meanwhile, Magic Mouth beams at Moonboose. “Oh, definitely! I mean, it’s going to take forever to clean this up, while Laserblade is off taking out the stop lights. That's annoying, but not dangerous! It just means there’s going to be a lot more work for the traffic cops today!”

“Good,” Moonboose says. He throws the shattered stone up in the air.

“So why _are_ you out unfashionably early? One of Doctor Terrible’s schemes?”

“Yes, he needs me and Laserblade--” Moonboose stops. He wiggles a finger at Magic Mouth. “Mr. Mouth, I’m not telling you anything about the scheme. Doctor Terrible said not to!”

“Okay,” Magic Mouth agrees. He gives a small, careless shrug. “It just seems like one of his more elaborate schemes, I thought you might like to tell me about it.”

“I-- No. Don’t do that, please,” Moonboose says, crossing his arms against his chest.

It’s embarrassing, Simmons thinks, that Moonboose, a villain who attended a kid’s birthday party yesterday according to the police surveillance, managed to figure out what Magic Mouth was doing before Simmons did. He scowls as he scans the damaged building. Then he spies movement in one of the top windows. “There’s someone inside.”

“There is?” Moonboose turns and looks at the building. “There wasn’t supposed to be. Please make them leave.”

“That’s a great idea, Moonboose,” Magic Mouth says. He turns. “Professor, can you go in and evacuate whoever’s there? We wouldn’t want an accident!”

“Uh, yeah,” Simmons says. The entrance is blocked by rubble. He hauls them to the side, wondering at Moonboose’s strength. Then again, maybe he’s just using his gravity powers to make the rocks weightless. His cyborg eye scans the building’s interior, noting the structural damage. It’s bad, but it’s not going to fall down on his head unless Moonboose does something while he’s inside. When he gets to the third story, slowed down by his decision not to use the elevator in an unstable building, the person inside turns out to be the nervous security guard. The man babbles something about not being paid enough to deal with supervillain bullshit as Simmons escorts him outside and to his car, which is thankfully undamaged by the destruction.

Two new text messages pop up in Simmons’ cyborg eye.

_**The Orange Blur:** laserblade just fucking checked his phone and left _

_no signs of doctor terrible but maybe that was a signal for something_

_or he just got bored i'm bored is moonboose bored? can we go home?_

“So, Moonboose. Laserblade just stopped destroying things,” Simmons says. He gives Magic Mouth a pointed look, who thankfully seems to pick up on it.

Magic Mouth laughs, “Wow, Moonboose, you _are_ a better villain than Laserblade! Look at him, checking his phone in the middle of a fight and leaving!”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m better,” Moonboose says, nodding. “I do what Doctor Terrible tells me. I don’t get distracted by--” He stops. Simmons thinks he’s trying to look cagey. “Stuff.”

“Well, I’m sure Doctor Terrible is proud of you,” Magic Mouth says warmly. “And I bet he wants to hear all about what you did! Maybe you should let him know?”

“Oh yeah, I should!” Then Moonboose’s shoulders slump. “But he’s busy.” Just as quickly as he slumps, though, he brightens. “I’ll tell him later.” He holds up his arm and squints at something that looks like a Lilo and Stitch watch. “Okay, goodbye!”

Simmons exchanges another look with Magic Mouth, who shrugs. “Uh, goodbye?”

Moonboose floats off, waving.

“That was weird, right?” Simmons says. “I mean, I know I’m new, but--”

“Yeah, no, that was weirder than usual. I’m not used to Moonboose trying to be sneaky! Usually the Trio just sort of announces their plans up front.” Magic Mouth purses his lips. “I wish I could’ve figured out their scheme.”

Simmons texts the others, _Moonboose just left too. Magic Mouth managed to get him to say that Doctor Terrible is ‘busy’ but I haven’t seen any police reports, so whatever he’s doing he’s not attracting attention._

 **In-and-Out:** _maybe he made up a shitty scheme to get them to leave him alone fucker could’ve waited until morning tho_

 **The Orange Blur:** _i’d do that if i were him, laserblade is annoying af_

And then, belatedly, from Doctor Pacifist: _Sorry, guys! I need to turn up my ringer. I slept through the whole thing :(_

 **The Orange Blur:** _we didn’t need you_

 **Doctor Pacifist:** _:( :( :(_

“So I guess we’re done? Unless Doctor Terrible does something next,” Magic Mouth says. He yawns elaborately, flipping his hair away from his face. “But honestly, I wasn’t joking about my beauty sleep. I hope these nighttime schemes don’t become a habit or I will get _very_ annoyed!”

“Yeah, I guess we are,” Simmons says. He texts: _I’m going to give it another five minutes, and if there’s nothing from the police about Doctor Terrible, I think we should head back to our homes._

 **The Orange Blur:** _already there dude_

Simmons waits for another flurry of messages, but the Orange Blur doesn’t say anything else. He must be already falling asleep. Or he’s less talkative when he’s not using his powers. He must be, Simmons reasons. People would figure out he was the Orange Blur if that fast talking was the way he talked as a civilian too. He listens for five minutes, as the police and the emergency repair vehicles pull up, but there’s no news about Doctor Terrible. In the end, he helps with clearing the road and picking up the rubble, talks to the emergency services about what his cyborg eye noted about the building, and then goes back to his place.

His phone buzzes as he locks his front door.

 **The Orange Blur:** _the app actually came in handy nice job I guess_

There’s another string of emojis, most of which Simmons doesn’t recognize.

He’s glad he’s alone, because he beams at his phone. Then he realizes that the Orange Blur probably wants a response. What should he say? He doesn’t want to seem needy or weird or--

He spends thirty minutes researching emojis and their meanings, first trying to decipher the Orange Blur’s message and then trying to comprise one of his own. He finally settles for a brief,  _Thanks! I’m glad it’s useful, though I wish we’d figured out Doctor Terrible’s scheme. Have a good night! Or morning, at this point._ Simmons hesitates, and then throws in a smiley face between the first two sentences. There. That’s casual, right? Then he falls into bed, exhausted from hauling around rubble.

He sleeps until almost noon. He’s woken only by his cyborg eye twitching and announcing the news that Doctor Terrible had robbed a local laboratory during the night. The lab is being cagey about what exactly Doctor Terrible stole, but Simmons recognizes the lab. They specialize in power enhancement technology.

“Well, that’s not good,” he mumbles.

 

* * *

 

Grif is reading a news article about the theft on Monday. The company is still being cagey, but apparently Doctor Terrible had sent a long, bombastic letter to the local news, reporting his successful theft of power enhancement technology that will aid the Trio in their plans to rule and control the city.

It’s the first time Simmons has seen Grif using his computer for something other than watching YouTube and Netflix shows, and weird enough that Simmons says, without intending to talk to Grif at all, “Yeah, I read that last night. I wonder what type of power enhancement tech it is. There’s a lot of variety.”

Grif blinks at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, and then shrugs. “Who knows. Probably something useless and he’s just trying to scam everyone. Whatever it is, the heroes can handle it.”

Simmons snorts. “Yeah. I heard about the city hall thing. Is that usually how their plans go?”

“That was actually one of their better ones,” Grif says. Then he squints up at Simmons. “You’re new in town, right? Don’t tell me that you actually thought the Trio was scary.”

“No,” Simmons lies. “The news definitely make them sound dangerous though. And they _are_ the biggest villains in Blood Gulch now, aren’t they? I thought I heard that Doctor Terrible made all the other villains leave.”

“He wishes,” Grif says. “Nah, maybe there aren’t any other villains right now, but Blood Gulch has always been sort of a starting point for villains. Then they move on to bigger cities like Valhalla or Chorus.” He pauses. “Or die, if they’re weak-ass idiots.”  

“Oh, are we talking about the Trio?” Donut asks, leaning towards them. “Grif, we’ve still got that bet going, right?”

Simmons glances between them. “Bet? What bet?”

“Uh, it’s a couple bets within one,” Grif says, shrugging again. “How long it will take for some other villains to kick the Trio's ass. Which Trio will die. That sort of thing.”

“Yeah, Doctor Terrible’s whole ‘no other villains’ allowed thing is a big no-no,” Donut says. “He honestly should have a bulls-eye painted on his costume, because he made himself and Moonboose and Laserblade huge targets.”

Simmons nods. There are unofficial rules for heroes and villains. The first and most important one is that heroes and villains deal with each other. The police handle mundane crime and handle the defeated villains, but they tend to be crowd control for hero versus villain fights. And most of the time, villains go after each other, trying earn a reputation before they tackle the heroes and bigger cities. Doctor Terrible’s declaration that Blood Gulch was his city and no other villains could operate within it was something that had attracted Simmons’ attention. It just wasn’t done. Villains earned their reputations by squashing other villains or allowing them to work under them in the city, killing them if they got too power-hungry.

Then Grif’s words sink in. “Wait, so you’re betting on when they _die_?”

Grif snorts. “You clearly didn’t grow up in a city with heroes and villains. Yeah, Sarge has already lost the bet. He thought they wouldn’t last more than a month.”

“Still don’t know how they did!” Sarge shouts across the room.

Simmons must still look slightly horrified, because Donut pats his arm and says, “Once you’ve lived in Blood Gulch for a while, you’ll understand. Even the heroes have the same bet going on. I mean, that's the rumor anyway!”

“Yeah. You want in?” Grif says, and then does something even more unexpected than reading the news. He smiles, a genuine grin spreading slowly across his face. He raises an eyebrow. “The current pot is fifty bucks. You get your first paycheck this week, right? You can place your bet now, fork over the money later.”

“Uh, maybe later,” Simmons says.

“Grif is betting on Doctor Terrible dying! I have my money on Laserblade.” Donut’s smile fades. “Oh, I hope it isn’t Moonboose.”

“Me, too,” Simmons says, unthinking. He inwardly winces at Donut and Grif’s confused looks. He flexes his cyborg hand, the synthetic skin moving smoothly over the concealed metal fingers. “Uh, I mean, I read that article about him going to a kid’s birthday party. He doesn’t seem very villainous. But I don’t know anything about the Trio. What do I know? Let me do some research before I place any bets.”

Grif snorts. His voice is thick with amusement when he drawls, “Dude, you can just say no.”

Simmons glances between them. “Are any other bets? Like about the heroes?” The urge to ask what they think of Professor Stupendous is almost overwhelming, but he chews on the inside of his mouth and doesn’t ask anything else.

“Nah.” Grif smirks. “We can’t even agree on which hero is the best. I mean, it’s _clearly_ the Orange Blur, with In-and-Out second.” There’s a weird note in his voice, almost challenging.

Simmons blinks at him, confused, until he remembers their first meeting. Right, Grif’s an Orange Blur fanboy. Simmons nods. “Again, I’m new, so I’m still learning about the heroes. But yeah, I agree!”

The flicker of surprise is back in Grif’s eyes. “You do? I thought you said he sucked.”

“Sucked to transcribe,” Simmons explains. “Not in general! His speedster powers are incredibly useful, especially in a rescue situation! How many people has he saved? Probably a lot. And he can get to the scene faster than any of the other heroes, so he knows what’s going on before anyone else, most of the time. He’s awesome!”

He only realizes how animated he’s become when Grif leans back in his chair to avoid Simmons’ wildly gesturing hands. Grif is staring at him, his eyes narrowed, like he thinks Simmons is teasing him. “Uh, okay,” is all he says. “Yeah. More useful than Doctor Pacifist’s powers, anyway.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Invisibility can come in handy if you’re trying to sneak up on a villain or--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grif says dismissively, overlapping with Donut’s amused, “Wow, for someone who’s new to the city, you’ve thought a lot about our heroes, Simmons! Oh, what do you think of Magic Mouth?”

Simmons grimaces, Magic Mouth using his powers on him all too fresh in his mind, and Donut’s expectant look falters. He shrugs.“His powers are useful, but a little creepy? I mean, he can pretty much mind-control people. I guess it’s good he’s not a villain, but, uh. Yeah.”

“Right,” Donut says. He laughs, but it sounds weird. “Creepy.” He takes a step back and then tilts his head to the side, a new smile on his face. “But anyway, definitely let us know if you want to place a bet on the Trio! I have this whole month blocked out.”

“Aw, crap.” Grif sounds disgusted. “Donut might actually win. Other villains are gonna want that stolen tech, so now Blood Gulch is gonna have villains coming out of its ass. Someone killing the Trio for the tech is just a matter of time. Especially since I’m pretty sure Doctor Terrible doesn’t even have powers, just bosses those two dumbasses around. Asshole with delusions of grandeur.”

“Oh, maybe!” Donut says, brightening. Then he sighs. “Oh no, we really _will_ have an influx of villains, won’t we? That will be so annoying.” He wanders back to his desk.

Simmons sits back down at his desk. He’s about to pull up his first transcription of the morning when Grif asks casually, “So what power would you have if you were empowered? You seemed into speedster powers.”

“Oh, um,” Simmons says, blinking in surprise but a little pleased that Grif wants to keep talking. He almost laughs. _If_ he were empowered? It's good to know that he's playing the boring civilian Dick Simmons role so well. He thinks over the question. He’d like his current powers but without the annoying itch aspect, but he can’t say that. “Hm,” he says, pretending to think about it. “Maybe precognition, as long as I could change or prevent what I saw. What about you?”

“Time travel,” Grif says instantly.

Simmons blinks again. “Why--”

Grif grins at him. “I could take naps any time I wanted, dude. Just set up a hideout somewhere like 200 years ago and crash there anytime I needed a nap. No one could bother me. It’s be awesome.”

Simmons is startled into laughter. “Uh, okay, naps are good. But you could also go back in time and help people--”

Grif shakes his head. “Nope. No changing history. Maybe the current day, if like I knew a train derailed ten minutes ago and I could stop it. But come on, dude, you’re a nerd. You’ve seen time travel movies. If I stop the Titanic from sinking, something something, the Germans win WWI. No thanks. Just let me take my naps.”

“There are better powers if you want naps,” Simmons points out. “Time stopping. You wouldn’t have to find a hideout. You could just stop time, take a nap, and restart time when you woke up. Or I know you weren’t into invisibility but--”

“Invisible naps,” Grif says. He sounds almost awed. “Damn, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Damnit, Grif!” Sarge barks, appearing between them suddenly. His expression is so thunderous that Simmons jumps guiltily. “Don’t distract Simmons! He actually does work, unlike your lazy ass.”

Grif leans back in his chair. He smirks. His voice turns poisonously sweet. “I do my work, Sarge. I’ve never turned anything in late, have I? DuFresne can back me up on that. Right, DuFresne?”

DuFresne pauses in the doorway, darting a nervous glance between Grif and Sarge. “Uh, well, all the performance reviews Sarge has insisted on _have_ been resolved in your favor, yes. All….thirty-eight of them.”

Sarge sputters. “He’s cheating somehow! I’d stake my life on it!”

“Prove it,” Grif says.

Sarge glares, but apparently he can’t prove it, because he snaps, “Now get to work, both of you! You ain’t being paid to jibber-jabber!” Before Simmons can even reach for his headphones, Sarge huffs and adds, “Besides, Sergeant Blood is _clearly_ the best hero. Have you seen his gun? And his dashing good looks?”

Grif makes a face. “Ugh, we don’t wanna hear about your Sergeant Blood boner.”

Sarge growls at him.

Simmons pulls up his first transcript. Despite Sarge’s scolding, he realizes he’s smiling to himself. The betting on the Trio’s death thing is pretty macabre, but it’s still nice to be included. And this is the first conversation since he started which didn’t end in him wanting to pull out his hair.

The last thing he hears before he presses play on the audio is Grif whispering to himself.

“ _Invisible naps._ ”  


	6. Tech Demo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Stupendous joins the investigation into the stolen tech. Detective McAllister makes her feelings known. Laserblade interrupts everyone's dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Okay I lied. NOW I'm on a writing hiatus and starting vacation Wednesday night. Someone reminded me that I hadn't brought Carolina back into the story and I needed to fix that.
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for looking this over and suggesting the chapter title and some of the dialogue!

Unofficial rule number one is that heroes and villains deal with each other, but villains stealing stuff from civilians is more of a gray area. It technically falls to the police to investigate, but sometimes they ask for assistance from local heroes.

Simmons is too new to the city to know the standard operating procedure here, but it probably depends on which officer is leading the investigation. If it’s detectives York or Washington, they’ll probably call everyone in. Simmons hopes they do. He wants to know what tech Doctor Terrible stole.

When he gets the alert two days after the theft for all the heroes involved in fighting Moonboose and Laserblade Sunday morning to report at the crime scene, Simmons heads over as quickly as possible. He’s not the first one there-- the Orange Blur is, as usual, and then for some reason so is Magic Mouth. Maybe he lives closer.

From the entrance, the lab doesn’t look like it’s been robbed other than what is presumably more guards than usual. A few of them eye him suspiciously despite his costume. From what the news has reported, Doctor Terrible broke in through an abandoned subway tunnel situated underneath the building. The damage is further inside; there's a laboratory floor caved in.

The building gives off a very clinical feeling. The only semblance of personality are the various awards framed on the white walls. Simmons tries not to judge, but his companies follow the general practices of color therapy. Their walls tend be painted colors meant to promote mental health and help with concentration, varying hues of blues and greens alongside white. Color psychology might not be completely scientifically sound, but there's also the placebo effect to consider, and whatever improves morale is a good idea in his opinion.

“Hey, it’s Professor Stupendous,” Detective Washington says, grinning at him as the guards wave Simmons into the waiting area. “Or is it Doctor?” When Simmons blinks at him, he says, “You wrote Doctor on your witness statement but told Ms. Andrews it was Professor. I didn’t know if you were still choosing a name or something.”

For a second Simmons just stares, confused. Then he remembers being so rattled that he almost wrote his real name. He flushes behind his mask. “Oh, I, uh. No, I was just a little nervous. My first bar brawl and witness statement, so, uh--” The words dry up in his mouth because he spies bright red hair. His stomach sinks. He tries to be optimistic. “Um, are you in charge of the investigation?”

“No,” a cold voice says. “I am.” This time Simmons thinks to look at her badge. Detective Carolina McAllister looks even less pleased to see him than last time. It’d be impressive, if it didn’t make him want to walk right back out the door and hide.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be great,” the Orange Blur deadpans. “Detective McAllister just _loves_ hero and villain bullshit. Like this shit is her favorite thing in the world. _Best_ part of the job. And she just loves all of us. And--”

“Please stop talking,” Washington says. “You’re not helping.”

“Who says I want to help?” the Orange Blur mutters. “She’s being a--”

“We’re all of course happy to help the Blood Gulch PD!” Magic Mouth says brightly.

McAllister ignores the entire conversation. She glances at her watch. Her scowl deepens. “If In-and-Out doesn’t show up in five minutes, we’re starting without her.”

“Uh, that’s fair,” Simmons says, and decides to keep his mouth shut when his voice squeaks. Maybe someone else will ask questions and he won’t have to attract McAllister’s attention at all.

“Sorry, bitches,” In-and-Out says, breezing into the laboratory with a grin a few minutes later. “Civ business interfered. You know how it is.”

McAllister frowns, a flicker of curiosity flitting across her face, and then refocuses. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t involve any of you in this,” she says. “But my captain seems to think you all can be useful in the investigation.” Her tone says she doubts it. The disdain is palpable.

“God, she’s a bitch,” In-and-Out whispers. “That’s _hot._ If she wasn’t a cop--”

“If she tazes you, I’m not gonna stop her,” the Orange Blur says flatly.

In-and-Out grins. “Now _that’s_ \--”

McAllister keeps ignoring them, although her eyes narrow. She leads them further into the building, where a woman and two men in lab coats are waiting by the gaping hole Doctor Terrible made. The laboratory looks wrecked. Dust coats everything, and police cones mark the footprints made in the dust, presumably by Doctor Terrible. Equipment is tossed everywhere.

Simmons winces, but relaxes when nothing feels salvageable.

McAllister stands almost at the edge of the collapsed floor. She gestures at it. “At 3:38 AM Sunday morning, Doctor Terrible allegedly broke into the building by using C4 to destroy the floor. The security cameras were somehow disabled before the dust could clear, but by the time a security guard arrived at 5 o’clock, he found this mess and reported the stolen tech. Later that day a letter was delivered to the Channel Seven station. Doctor Terrible claimed responsibility.”

Magic Mouth frowns. “Allegedly?”

McAllister's lips curl. “The security cameras didn’t catch him, so we only have his letter as evidence that he committed the theft. So, yes, allegedly, even if he clearly sent his little minions to commit destruction of property as a distraction.”

Wow, Simmons thinks he’s found someone McAllister dislikes even more than the heroes. If there was disdain in her voice before, there’s something darker now, her eyes narrowed and her jaw tight.

She doesn’t say anything for a second, and then shakes her head. “What we _do_ know is that dangerous technology was stolen from the lab. Dr. Sherry and her staff work tech development here. They’re going to give you a run-down of what to expect if the Trio figure out how to use the tech, and how you can recover it.” The doubt and disdain are back in her voice.

“Er, yes,” Dr. Sherry says. The woman looks slightly thrown by McAllister’s attitude. After a second she rallies and smiles brightly at the heroes. “Hello! I wish we could’ve met under better circumstances, but it’s still amazing to meet you. So, as far as I’m aware none of you use power enhancement technology--”

In-and-Out flips her hair. “Yeah, no need, I’m already badass. I’ve gotta give the rest of these losers a chance.”

Dr. Sherry blinks, and then actually smiles, a quick, fleeting quirk of her lips before she keeps going. “--but we specialize in it. Our technology has been used by governments and heroes world wide!” A hint of pride creeps into her voice.

“Yeah, we’re real popular,” the man on her left says.

“Or at least we were,” the man on her right adds cheerfully. “Don’t know that a break-in makes us look very good.”

Simmons bites his tongue. They are a top-level lab, but all three of his companies are better, and _their_ security has so far been impenetrable, whether it’s the engineering firm, the design firm, or the manufacturing plant. The only thing each company’s security hasn’t seen through is the fact that they’re owned by two separate shell companies that keep Simmons out of the public eye. He still doesn't know how this place managed to get some of the contracts they did last quarter. Judging by the press surrounding the theft, though, their prospects are looking less than ideal this quarter.

Dr. Sherry pauses. She’s been holding a clipboard. Now she fiddles with it, grimacing at her fellow scientist’s comment. “The problem is, well, that we’re not quite sure what the stolen tech _does_.” Judging by McAllister’s face, this is news to her too. Dr. Sherry winces apologetically. “We, uh, generally create original technology, but sometimes we receive special prototypes and funding from, uh, individuals and government branches that are so secretive we don’t know what the prototypes do until we test them ourselves.”

Simmons bites his tongue again, glad that his mask hides his judgmental look. Suddenly all those contracts make a little more sense. His companies have worked with police and the military, but he doesn’t allow this level of secrecy. Progress can’t be made blindfolded.

“And that’s the kind of tech Doctor Terrible stole?” McAllister asks grimly.

Dr. Sherry sighs. “Yes. The shipment Doctor Terrible stole had just arrived Saturday afternoon. We didn’t get a chance to run any tests, so they could do a variety of things: increase output or efficiency, mitigate side effects, etc. There’s a lot of red tape and secrecy, so I’m trying to see if I can get any more details, but….” She shrugs.

“Red tape takes time to cut through,” one of her scientists offers helpfully.

McAllister looks somehow even unhappier than before. She crosses her arms against her chest. This time her glare is directed at Dr. Sherry, who clutches her clipboard even more tightly like a shield. “So do the prototypes work at all when they’re sent here? Or did Doctor Terrible just steal some useless tech?”

“With power enhancement technology, especially in the prototype phase, there’s a high likelihood of the prototype exploding or malfunctioning,” Simmons adds. He frowns. “Could the Trio actually be in danger?”

In-and-Out laughs and nudges Magic Mouth. “Hey, I know you don’t win the whole pot since you bet on Laserblade, do you still win something if Doctor Terrible accidentally kills himself?”

McAllister closes her eyes. Simmons is a little distracted by the fact that Donut had been telling the truth -- the heroes _do_ place pretty much the same bets as most of Blood Gulch -- but he's pretty sure she mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “I hate heroes so much.”

“Well,” Dr. Sherry says, laughing uncomfortably. “It varies, but generally the prototypes can function in a limited capacity by the time they reach our lab. We’re just sort of testing out and fine-tuning things. So it’s hard to say with any certainty!”

Magic Mouth raises his hand.

“Oh, you don’t have to raise your hand, but, uh, yes?”

Magic Mouth says slowly, “I just want to make sure I understand. We don’t know what tech the Trio has, and we probably won’t until the Trio show up again. The tech could make Moonboose even stronger, or enhance whatever powers Doctor Terrible has, or blow up in everyone’s faces.”

“That sums it up!” one of the other scientists says. He grins at Magic Mouth. “Good job!”

Dr. Sherry doesn’t smile. She looks embarrassed, her cheeks pink. “Unfortunately, yes. I’m sorry that I don’t have anything helpful for you guys. My advice is if you see something out of the ordinary on their costumes, it’s probably the tech. Just, um try to get it away from them?”

The Orange Blur snorts. “Gee, I wonder whose fucking job _that_ gets to be. Probably the speedster, right? So I guess I get to grab and dash and try not to get my ass blown up. Unless anyone else has a better idea? One that doesn’t involving me grabbing and dashing and trying not to get hit by Moonboose?”

Magic Mouth offers, “I could try to talk them into handing the tech over. If they think it’s too dangerous, maybe they’d give it up.”

“I can distract Laserblade for you, Blur,” In-and-Out says, turning the offer into an innuendo somehow just from the slow curve of her lips.

Dr. Sherry turns even pinker.

The Orange Blur growls. “No, nope, not gonna repeat myself. Stop flirting with Laserblade.”

“If we could focus,” McAllister says coldly. “The current plan will have to be just to steal the tech back whenever the Trio does one of their stupid schemes. Dr. Sherry, I expect you to update us if you get any information about the prototypes.”

“Of course!” Dr. Sherry says, nodding.

Meanwhile the Orange Blur snorts. “Uh huh, yeah, great plan, a real winner. Steal the tech back. Should work, as long as no villains see Doctor Terrible’s dumbass letter and the stolen tech as a red flag in front of a goddamn bull. Which they’re definitely gonna, so the villains might just play murdery hot potato until we can grab the tech.”

“Murdery hot potato? That does _not_ sound like a fun new game,” Washington says dryly.

McAllister looks grim. “I guess we’ll see what happens.”

 

* * *

 

Simmons is eating dinner when the alert comes in. He frowns, setting down his fork. “A restaurant? Why is Laserblade attacking a--”

His phone buzzes.

 **The Orange Blur:** _guess laserblade’s new tech lets him make two swords_

_doctor terrible is here too but he’s doing jack shit as usual_

_don’t see any tech like staring me in the face tho_

The restaurant’s not too far from Simmons’ place, though it’s not one he’s been to yet in his quest to establish himself in the neighborhood. _I’m on my way,_ he texts back.

 **Magic Mouth:** _In-and-Out and I will be there in five!_

Simmons pauses. Were In-and-Out and Magic Mouth hanging out? Do they know each other’s civilian identities, or were they just having a private hero Wine and Cheese Hour? Simmons is definitely not jealous, whatever they were doing. They’ve worked together for a couple years now, of course they might hang out when not saving the day.

When he gets to the restaurant, Laserblade is gleefully carving up a table with his blades. The entire restaurant is empty of civilians, but Simmons can see a few overturned dishes and the abandoned jackets of diners who made a hasty exit.

The Orange Blur glances over his shoulder at Simmons. He’s got a bread basket, and within a single blink and the next, the basket is empty.

“Are you eating people’s dinners?” Simmons asks, already knowing the answer.

“Chill out, Professor. They’re not gonna be back for it. I evacuated everyone and the owner says he’ll refund everyone’s dinners, which is cool but super sucks for him, like that’s gonna cost him a mint. But maybe that falls under some insurance thing, who knows.”

There’s a pop of displaced air, and In-and-Out and Magic Mouth appear beside them. Magic Mouth laughs. He smooths a flyaway hair. “Wow, that’s such a head rush!”

“Hey, dickweasel!” In-and-Out shouts at Laserblade, who pauses in destroying another table to look over. “Mouth and I were in the middle of endorsement deal shit, you fucker!”

“Boohoo, you won’t make another thousand bucks this year,” Doctor Terrible says from where he’s sitting on the bar, his arms folded. “Lemme grab the smallest violin for you.”

Laserblade grins. He holds up his weapons. They glow in the dim restaurant lighting. “Hey, In-and-Out. I’ve got two swords! Is that badass or what?”

“Or what,” the Orange Blur says. “Like, I’ll give you props for the Pulp Fiction vibe, Pulp Fiction is badass, but you managed to make it lame, dude. Like, how do you ruin Pulp Fiction, a fucking classic, with your lameness--”

“And overcompensating,” In-and-Out adds. “I _knew_ you had a pencil-dick! What next, are you gonna buy a big truck too, really show the ladies how much they’re not missing?”

“I’m not-- I just--” Laserblade sputters. “Fuck you guys, two swords are way better than one! I’m not compensating for shit.”

“I don’t know. They have a point,” Doctor Terrible says. He smirks when Laserblade glares at him. “The swords are a little--” He makes a vague hand gesture, snickering.

“Oh, fuck you too, dude.”

While they’re distracted, Simmons scans Laserblade for any sign of the tech. The only thing that pops up as unusual is the second sword. The enhancement tech must be concealed under the costume. He hesitates, then turns to Magic Mouth. “Do you think you can get him to turn over the tech, or at least tell where he’s hiding it?”

Magic Mouth smiles. “I can try!”

“And I’m gonna distract Doctor Dumbass,” In-and-Out says. She disappears and reappears next to Doctor Terrible at the bar, close enough that he yelps and almost falls backwards. “Stones and glass houses, bitch. Do you make up all these stupid schemes because you can’t get it up?”

“Because I _what_?” Doctor Terrible’s voice rises to an offended screech.

“Pencil dick and limp dick,” In-and-Out says, nodding. “No wonder you dudes went bad.”

“I don’t--”

She leans over, and pats his cheek. He jerks his pistol up, but she’s already gone, reappearing behind him. She snags a bottle of champagne off the wall and pops the cork, taking a swig of it before disappearing again as Doctor Terrible twists around and tries to aim.

“Hello, Laserblade!” Magic Mouth says cheerfully.

Laserblade rolls his eyes. His grip tightens on his swords. “Yeah, not listening to your weird sweet talk, dude.”

Simmons takes in his tensed shoulders, the stubborn jut of Laserblade’s jaw, how he’s steeled himself against Magic Mouth’s powers. Maybe if Laserblade is distracted, he’ll be more vulnerable to Magic Mouth’s abilities? He goes over some potential distractions, and settles on the simplest: a fight. “We could fight instead,” he says. When Laserblade blinks at him, Simmons picks up a chair with his cyborg arm and throws it at his head.

Laserblade yelps and brings up his swords just in time. They slice through the chair like it’s butter. The pieces thud to the ground. For a second Laserblade looks surprised, and then he grins. “Okay, let me show off how badass these swords are.”

“Oh, fight, fight, fight!” In-and-Out cheers, toasting them with her champagne bottle. From the corner of Simmons’ eye, he watches her take another swig and teleport next to Doctor Terrible, bumping him with her shoulder. “Wanna bet on who wins?”

“Yes-- no,” Doctor Terrible says. He raises his pistol, but she’s already gone.

Laserblade raises his swords and advances on Simmons, twirling them like something out of a cheesy action film. “Let’s see if these swords can cut through your fancy metal arm.”

Simmons throws another chair at him. This time Laserblade swings and cuts it down in mid-air. The pieces spin away and crash into nearby tables.

“ _Really_ hope this place has insurance, otherwise they’re boned, just super screwed,” the Orange Blur says, but he sounds amused. There’s a ripple of air beside Simmons, and the broken chairs are gone.

“Come on,” Laserbalde says, grinning, and uses his swords to gesture Simmons closer.

A sizzling shot makes them both flinch and stop in their tracks. The blue beam hits the far wall, burning through plaster. A few stray pieces hit Simmons’ shoulder. The ensuing dust temporarily dulls the gleam of his cyborg arm. He's not hurt, but it’s going to be a bitch to clean off his clothes. Plus that shot came way too close to going straight through either his or Laserblade’s body. Simmons turns to glare.

“ _Dude_ ,” Laserblade grumbles.

“Fuck,” Doctor Terrible says, lowering his pistol. He sounds sulky. “I was aiming for In-and-Out.”

“Wow, you fucking suck,” In-and-Out says. She flips his cape over his head.

As Doctor Terrible yelps and struggles, his pistol gripped in one flailing hand, Simmons pauses in his fight with Laserblade to study the weapon. He knows it’s not part of the tech theft, because he’s seen images of Doctor Terrible waving it around in newspaper photos, but it looks like it could’ve been part of the theft. There aren’t any laser guns on the open market, just experiments in progress for various government and military groups.

Maybe Doctor Terrible has made it a habit of stealing from high-tech companies, Simmons thinks, and then his cyborg eye alerts him to a surprise attack.

He dodges the first blow, the sword glancing off a table and scorching it, and then grabs Laserblade’s other wrist. Laserblade throws his whole body into the strike, but Simmons braces himself and stops the blade a few inches from his cyborg shoulder. Laserblade wasn’t joking about trying to cut through his cyborg arm, he realizes as Laserblade smirks at him. There’s no heat radiating off the sword, but it buzzes faintly in Simmons’ ears. Laserblade’s wrist twists in his grip.

Simmons grabs Laserblade’s other wrist and shoves him against the nearest support beam, trying to study the weapons with his cyborg eye as Laserblade gripes, “Dude, personal space!”

Despite the danger, curiosity makes Simmons ask, “So the laser swords, they’re not warm. Do they not cauterize wounds, or--”

“Nope. Want me to demonstrate?” Laserblade kicks out at him, his foot glancing off Simmons’ shin. The pain’s still sharp enough that Simmons lets go and takes a few steps back, dodging wild swings of the swords.

Magic Mouth says, “Wow, that is _really_ cool.”

“Right?” Laserblade says, momentarily pausing to hold the swords up and grin. “So badass.”

Magic Mouth nods. He’s sitting at a cleaned table, his chin propped in one hand, looking fascinated by the swords. He leans forward a little, admiring them. “So the tech enhances your powers? Is that why you’re able to make two swords now?”

Laserblade tosses one sword into the air and catches it. He shrugs. “I mean, I can always make two swords because I’m awesome, it’s just a bitch and wipes me out. But I feel awesome. And two swords are totally better than one.” He smirks at Simmons. “I bet you wished you had two cyborg arms.”

“Not really,” Simmons says.

“But yeah, this shit is awesome. And the tech’s so small, it can fit right--”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Doctor Terrible growls. “I told you to do one thing besides test out the tech: don’t run your fucking mouth off to the heroes!”

Laserblade frowns. “I’m not-- Oh. Right.” He scowls at Magic Mouth for a second and then says, “But you were totally serious about two swords being awesome, right? That wasn’t part of the trick?”

Magic Mouth looks slightly offended. “I never trick anyone! Magic Mouth doesn’t need to lie to get what he wants!”

There’s a short pause.

“...Gross,” Laserblade says.

The roof caves in.

There’s no warning. One second there’s a roof above their heads, and the next second half the roof is rubble on the floor. Part of the roof comes down three inches from Simmons and Laserblade. He doesn’t even get a chance to cover his head.

"DOCTOR TERRIBLE YOU ARE VERY GOOD AT HIDE AND SEEK, BUT I FOUND YOU!"

“Goddamnit, Moonboose,” Doctor Terrible says as Simmons waves dust from in front of his face and coughs.

He tries to scan the area and see if anyone’s been injured, but the dust and debris makes it hard to see. Finally he spies the Orange Blur, Magic Mouth, and In-and-Out, all somehow safe, though they all seem annoyed.

“Fuck, the one time I clean up. Try to be a Good Samaritan. Do some nice shit,” the Orange Blur mutters.

In-and-Out glares up in Moonboose’s direction as he floats slowly from the now open ceiling space to the floor. The bottle is in shards at her feet. “Bitch, I was still drinking that champagne!”

“My outfit is so dirty,” Magic Mouth complains, wiping at the dust coating his costume.

“It’s Laserblade’s turn to hide,” Moonboose says. He drops his voice to a carrying whisper. “But we don’t have to look very hard for him, Doctor Terrible.”

Laserblade rolls his eyes. “Yeah, screw this. No one appreciates my badass homage to Pulp Fiction, the new hero is a nerd, the roof almost fell on me, and this shit sucks.” Both swords vanish from sight. When Simmons blinks, there’s an afterimage of the blades against the back of his eyelids. “I’m out.”

Doctor Terrible shrugs. “Whatever. Wasn’t much more to the test anyway.” He leans across the bar and steals a bottle himself. “Come on, let’s go.”

Simmons watches as Moonboose puts a hand on Doctor Terrible and Laserblade’s shoulders. Then Moonboose jumps. There’s no floating gently into the air this time; Moonboose just bends his knees and barrels towards the open ceiling, fast enough that Doctor Terrible and Laserblade both yelp.

Simmons glances at the other heroes, who mostly seem more concerned with wiping dust off their costumes or, for In-and-Out, grabbing another bottle of champagne. “So, uh, shouldn’t we go after them?” he asks, even as his eye begins calculations on if he can get enough strength in his cyborg leg to jump up onto the ruined roof.

The Orange Blur snorts. “What, straight up? No fucking way. Nope. Moonboose probably has special tech too, which apparently makes him fast as fuck, like did you see him jump-- like I’m fast, but I can’t fucking fly or float or whatever Moonboose does, so yeah, we’re gonna let them go play hide and seek somewhere else. Hopefully they’re done testing out their shit today, though they might keep testing out shit tomorrow, who fucking knows. We can at least tell McAllister that the tech works and apparently makes these idiots slightly more impressive villains, see if that gets her off our ass for a minute--”

“Still talking,” In-and-Out says, and the Orange Blur stops like she’s flipped a switch. She shrugs. “But yeah, maybe next time Blur can try to grab Laserblade and I can pat him down--” Her grin turns dirty and the Orange Blur groans. “--see where he’s hiding the tech.”

“And if Moonboose is even stronger than before, we need everyone if he’s around,” Magic Mouth adds. “I honestly don’t think he’d hurt us on purpose, but he already seemed pretty bad at judging his own strength even before this new tech, so…better safe than sorry?”

Simmons looks around. The restaurant is coated in dust and the rubble has destroyed or covered most of the tables. He sighs and picks up a huge chunk of the ceiling. He drops it outside the door, intending to start a pile. “Does having Moonboose around mean you guys end up doing a lot of clean-up?”

In-and-Out giggles. “Uh, no. But if you wanna be a big softie, have fun with that. Come on, Mouth, we need mimosas.”

“Well, I could sta--” Magic Mouth doesn’t finish his sentence as In-and-Out snags his arm and teleports him away.

The Orange Blur shakes his head. A few seconds later, most of the smaller debris piles are gone. “In-and-Out is right. You shouldn’t be so nice,” he tells Simmons. “If you’re too nice, people are gonna expect you to stay nice. Do you really wanna be the clean-up crew every time? _We_ didn’t wreck this shit.”

“No, I don’t, but the Trio isn’t going to clean up, so _someone_ has to,” Simmons says. “And it’s our responsibility as heroes--” He ignores the Orange Blur’s groan. “--our responsibility to help civilians in any way we can, isn’t it?”

“Nah.”

“Besides, you were cleaning up earlier. I saw.”

“Only to get easier access to food,” the Orange Blur mutters.

“Uh huh,” Simmons says skeptically. “Honestly, our biggest responsibility should be stopping the Trio. How many thousands of dollars in property damage have they caused already? Even as strong as Moonboose is, we could probably figure out a plan and capture the Trio without too much risk. If they're as idiotic as they seem, it shouldn't be too hard--”

The Orange Blur has been zipping around the room, but now he stops. “Dude, no. Sure, they’re annoying, and the stolen tech thing was a surprise, but they’re predictable and a bigger danger to themselves than to others, like just look at tonight and Moonboose almost dropping a ceiling on his team. Just let them try to be the only villains in town. Other villains can focus on them, and we don't have to risk our asses fighting randos like when Ite--” He stops, like In-and-Out has flipped another switch though she’s long gone, presumably drinking a mimosa by now. His voice goes flat. “Just chill. Don’t try to fix the city when you’ve been here for like a week.”

Simmons chews on his lip so he doesn’t ask the questions that will just make the Orange Blur angry or upset. He remembers the way everyone looked at the Wine and Cheese Hour when he mentioned Iteration, how grief and tension thickened the air. He says instead, “I’m not good at chilling, but okay. And I guess using the Trio as scapegoats makes sense.”

“Perfect sense,” the Orange Blur says. Then he groans. “Fucking Moonboose. Half of the food is screwed up.”

Simmons blinks and glances around. Plaster and dust coat pretty much the entire space. “Half? Try all.”

The Orange Blur picks up a bread basket. He picks off the top pieces and says, “Only the surface food. There’s plenty of stuff under that. Besides, it’s fine, like a little dust isn’t gonna kill me--”

Simmons squawks, “You can’t eat that! What if this place has _asbestos_? What if mice live in the ceiling? It's unsanitar--”

Between one second and the next, the bread basket is empty. The Orange Blur snickers. “Yeah, I already did while you were talk talk talking, you talk a lot you know that? So many questions! All the questions all the time! Why so many questions? Also, there’s like a health inspection thing in the kitchen. They were just inspected last week, we’re cool.”

“I ask questions because none of you guys explain things!”

“Uh huh. And did you think _Laserblade_ was gonna explain things?” The Orange Blur’s voice changes, and Simmons realizes his fast voice is pitched higher, trying to mimic Simmons’. “Hey, Laserblade, does your weapon cauterize wounds? Why isn’t the laser sword hot? Can I take a sword home and do nerdy shit to it?”

“I didn’t say that last part,” Simmons protests, his face getting hot under his mask. “And what’s nerdy shit? Scientific study of a unique empowered ability, because then yeah, I wanted to get a better look at the swords--”

“Gonna get a real good look when he slices off your face,” the Orange Blur says.

Simmons rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m not _dumb_.”

“Uh huh,” the Orange Blur says skeptically. “Didn’t he almost cut your arm off earlier?”

Simmons glares. “I’m not dumb! My app came in handy, didn’t it?”

The Orange Blur shrugs. There’s another bread basket in his hand. “You can be book smart, street stupid, dude.”

Simmons blinks. He turns the sentence around in his head, studying it from every angle, but it still sounds like a backhanded compliment. He says slowly, “...That sounds like you called me smart.”

There’s half of a bread stick in the Orange Blur’s hand. He goes still for a second, though his face is still obscured by his hoodie. Still he’s motionless enough for a second that Simmons thinks he seems surprised. Then the Orange Blur snorts. “Uh no, I said you _can_ be, didn't say you _were_.”

“Are you guys done? I need to bring in the owner and start assessing the damage and getting his statement,” a voice says from the doorway. Detective York grins at them both, looking amused.

“Oh, uh, yeah. We were just cleaning up.”

York steps inside, surveying the scene, and gives an impressed whistle. “Hope you guys can get that tech back soon. Moonboose is going to drive a couple insurance companies under at this rate.”

When Simmons and the Orange Blur go outside, it’s past dusk. The city’s never completely dark, though, the street lit by lamps and the red flashing lights of a nearby fire engine. Simmons thinks of Magic Mouth and In-and-Out. He hesitates, but the question slips out, “So, uh, do Magic Mouth and In-and-Out have drinks a lot? I mean, it makes sense, you guys have all known each other for awhile--”

“Wow, In-and-Out was right. You _are_ a needy bitch,” the Orange Blur says. “Yeah, they hang out to discuss their endorsement deals, think up new ways to make money, drink mimosas, have girl talk, braid each other’s hair, yadda yadda. You’re not missing much.”

Simmons flushes. “I’m not--”

The Orange Blur pats his arm. Simmons is startled all over again by the warmth of his hand even through his costume. Is it a speedster thing? “Don’t worry, dude. You’ll get an invite eventually. And then you’ll regret it, because seriously, so much girl talk.”

The condescending edge in his voice has Simmons bristling again. He says, “Sort of sounds like you got uninvited. Did they tell you not to hang out with them until you ditched the hoodie and got an actual costume?”

“Hey, don’t diss the hoodie, the hoodie is my trademark. My hoodie is awesome.”

Simmons is struck by the fact that the Orange Blur’s voice is slowing down the longer they stand around and argue. He’s still talking fast, but there’s less buzzing, like he’s switching from high gear to a medium gear, and he’s repeating himself less. Simmons refocuses on the conversation. “Uh huh, the hoodie you probably grabbed out of your closet your first day of superheroing and never changed out of?” When the Orange Blur doesn’t say anything, Simmons barks out a surprised laugh, feeling vindicated. “I knew it! But you also let the public name you the Orange Blur, so why am I surprised?”

“Oh yeah, like Professor Stupendous is any better,” the Orange Blur says. Simmons can hear the eye roll in his voice. “Like just call yourself the Nerdy Hero and be fucking done with it, dude. Like I thought Doctor Pacifist was bad--”

“Is he really a doctor?”

The Orange Blur shrugs. “Uh, no clue, but I’m going with no. Dude probably can’t even do CPR right.”

Simmons knows he’s probably exaggerating, but he still frowns. “He should do CPR training then. The city offers it for free through the community centers. You can get certified for two years.”

The Orange Blur gives him a look. “You totally did that, didn’t you?”

“It’s sensible hero prep! What if someone’s injured?”

“Nerd,” the Orange Blur says. There’s no real bite to his voice, though.

“Yeah, whatever,” Simmons mutters. Somehow when he envisioned joining the heroes of Blood Gulch, he hadn’t imagined quite so much mockery. “If you’re gonna be a jerk, I’m leaving. Laserblade interrupted my dinner.”

“Mine too. Diabolical,” the Orange Blur says, in a decent imitation of Sergeant Blood’s voice.

Simmons swallows down a laugh.

Between one breath and the next, the Orange Blur is gone, probably back to his interrupted dinner.

Simmons’ stomach pinches at him. He sighs a little. “Being a hero involves a lot more skipped meals than I thought,” he mutters to himself. “Maybe I should start packing energy bars or something with my costume… Or eat meals at like 2 AM….”


	7. Lair Invasion Defense Tips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Terrible clears the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for our first POV switch and some Blue Team stuff! 
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for helping me flesh out this chapter, as well as giving me about 90% of Church's speech. :D

“Church.”

Church can feel Tucker hovering at his shoulder. It’s pretty easy to ignore him. First off, Church doesn’t care about whatever has Tucker frowning. Second, he’s almost done editing his latest transcription, and then he can call it an early afternoon.

“Church. I need to talk to you while Caboose is getting snacks.”

Church snorts. “You want to whine about Caboose? Dude, at least he has the balls to trash-talk you to your face. Shut up and actually do some work for once. Doesn’t your kid need a new pair of shoes or something?”

“Yeah, he does, because he’s growing like crazy-- but stop distracting me.” Tucker leans over and presses the power button to the monitor. The screen goes dark. “You need to take Caboose’s tech.”

Church glances over his shoulder, assuring himself that Caboose closed the office door shut behind him. This job is easy. It’d be a shame to lose it because Tucker outed them all as villains. Then he snorts again. “Yeah, no.”

“Dude, do you remember, like, yesterday? When he tried to hug you?”

Church winces at the reminder. His hand instinctively drops to his ribs. “Okay,” he says reluctantly. “Good point. But we have to use the tech if we’re gonna keep all the villains out.”

“I’m not saying take _my_ tech. Two swords are badass. Just take Caboose’s away.”

The door opens and Caboose comes in. He smiles serenely, and hands Church a Snickers bar as he says, “Tucker is just mad because my powers are better.”

“Crap. How do I always forget how good his hearing is,” Tucker mutters.

Church smirks for a second. Then he refocuses. “If Caboose stops using his tech, people will notice. We’re serious threats now. We’re not slowing down now, not when the plan’s finally working.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about the serious threats thing. Also, the plan that paints a target on our backs?” Tucker asks sarcastically. “The plan I think is dumb? _That_ plan? I’m just saying, stealing useful tech like other villains aren’t gonna want to get their hands on it isn’t--”

Nausea twists in Church’s stomach at the thought of other villains in Blood Gulch. For a second he can’t think, choked by rage. He clings white-knuckled to his control, because they’re at work, and those dumbasses are right across the hall, but his jaw aches from repressing a shout. He hisses, low, “If anyone tries, they’ll be sorry. _”_

Caboose crowds in at Church’s other shoulder, frowning at Tucker. “Yeah, Tucker. We’re the only villains allowed.”

Tucker steps back, holding up his hands defensively. “I know that! I’m just saying we should be ready if anyone tries to steal the tech from us!”

Church unclenches his jaw. His smile feels a little too wide; it pinches at his cheeks. “Oh, I’m ready.”

Tucker squints at him. He looks slightly weirded out, the way he always does whenever Church talks about other villains. “That’s creepy. You know that was creepy, right? I know we’re villains, but--” He stops, shaking his head. “So, uh, you wanna elaborate on how you’re ready? Are Caboose and I back-up?”

Caboose’s frown deepens. He looks concerned. “I don’t know how to dance.”

Church gets momentarily distracted from his anger as he tries to parse Caboose’s non sequitur. Then he figures it out. He sighs. “Not a back-up dancer, Caboose. Tucker means like protection.”

“Oh!” Caboose brightens. “I can do that.”

“Yeah, except when you hug Church too hard,” Tucker mutters. As Caboose huffs, his face scrunching up in annoyance, Tucker stares at Church. “Seriously, you gonna elaborate or what?”

Church considers telling them. Then he dismisses the idea. “Nah. I’d rather see your impressed faces when I pull it off.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Sure. Don’t come bitching to me when you die, dude.”

Church, scowling, is about to reply when Donut breezes into the office. Donut has to duck his head a little to enter, which amuses Church every time. Donut smiles brightly, and Church instinctively smiles back. Out of all the idiots across the hall, Donut’s probably the least awful.

“Hey, guys!”

“Hi!” Caboose says cheerfully.

“Sure, just come in,” Tucker says, but it’s halfhearted at best. Sarge is really the only one who considers the office enemy territory. Even Grif comes by sometimes, though mostly to trade snacks with Caboose. Tucker squints at Donut. “Did Sarge send you over to sabotage us or what?”

Donut laughs. “Actually, I’m here in secret.” He taps a finger against his nose and winks. “Frank told me that next Monday is Simmons’ one-month anniversary at the company, and I thought we could throw a party for him!”

When Donut beams at them, Church says, “Yeah, if there’s free food, we’re in. If you expect us to chip in, though, we’re probably going to pass.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that!” DuFresne says. Church blinks at him, having missed him come in with Donut. DuFresne smiles back. “We suggested that a party might improve office morale, encourage teamwork, that sort of thing, and Mr. Vic agreed to pay for the dinner himself!”

“He even promised to try and stop in for a minute,” Donut adds.

Tucker glances hopefully at Church, who shrugs. He doesn’t really care about their boss, who shows up once in a blue moon to give everyone a thumbs up and keep the stupid office rivalry stuff going, but he knows Tucker is curious about the guy.

“If I can get a babysitter for Junior, I’ll come,” Tucker says. “Is there, like, a card to sign or something?”

Church snorts. “What kind of card would that even be?”

Donut cocks his head, looking thoughtful. “Oh, I’m sure someone out there has made weirdly specific cards. Ones that say stuff like congratulations on not getting fired. No, that’s kind of negative. Congratulations on your continued employment, maybe?” He laughs. “Or we just get a blank one and write something in.”

“We’ll figure something out,” DuFresne says. “We’ll look for one tonight and try to get everyone to sign it tomorrow before the weekend!”

Caboose shakes his head. “You won’t find the best one. It should be homemade. Homemade is _always_ better. Oh! We could make one!”

“Uh, you guys have fun with that,” Church says. He glances between Caboose, DuFresne, and Donut, and hopes Simmons likes glitter and a mess. Knowing how tightly wound the guy is, this is probably going to be a disaster. Church is looking forward to it.

 

* * *

 

 

Church is actually in a good mood when he gets back to the lair. Caboose is off with Donut and DuFresne making the card, Tucker’s spending time with his kid, and Church actually has some free time to himself. Time to plan the next step in claiming Blood Gulch. Maybe with the enhancement tech, they’ll get taken seriously if they take over City Hall again.

Or he could take a nap.

He’s asleep when the proximity alarms go off. He fumbles for his glasses and mutters, “ _Goddamnit_ , Caboose.” He doesn’t even know why he bothers with a password, because Caboose never remembers it. The alarms screech, the red lights flashing overhead.

When he gets his glasses on, though, and pulls up the cameras, the screen beside his bed shows three unfamiliar figures at the back entrance with a fucking battering ram, another four at the front, and two climbing the east wall.

“Well, fuck.”

For a second, Church’s throat closes. He can’t breathe. He leans closer to the screen, trying to see if he recognizes the lair invaders. Villains are like fucking cockroaches. You don’t know until you’re up close and personal if it’s a weak one that you can easily stomp or some giant fucker who can fly and kill you, and Church fucking hates the uncertainty almost as much as he hates these guys.

Almost, because these guys are ignoring his claim on Blood Gulch. Invading his lair.

One of the villains glances up at the camera. He’s masked, but Church spies the symbol on his chest. His panicked rage gives way to a cold, seething fury. He knows these guys. He’s seen the news reports, heard about the damage and deaths they’ve caused to civilian populations in other cities.

And now they’re here.

Well, not for long.

 

* * *

 

They weren’t always a Them, but the time before isn’t important. All that matters is that one became two, and two became many, and then the many became one again, a superior Hivemind that was meant to be. Everything else, and everyone else, is unimportant, except in their usefulness to Them.

Doctor Terrible styles himself a powerful villain. He breaks the rules, claiming a city, but at the start They find the arrogance amusing and immaterial. They will take Blood Gulch whenever They wish to. For the time being, They have other places to show the glory of the Hivemind. It is only when he steals the power enhancement technology that he becomes useful. They imagine their powers even stronger, how easily They could take a city if They could spread out further without weakening Their connection.

They are The Zealots. They’ll take the tech, and They’ll take Blood Gulch too.

The door buckles beneath the battering ram They wield, at the same time They reach one of the windows and begin to pry it open. The front door comes apart in an explosion. They enter amid the screeching alarms and flashing lights, prowling through the concrete bunker. There is little to the place, long corridors that lead to empty, dusty room after empty, dusty room. After three of these, They wonder if They miscalculated and found an old, abandoned lair. But then They open the next and survey a kitchen, dirty dishes left soaking in the sink from the morning's breakfast, and know that They are in the right place.

Another door opens to a bedroom. They stop, puzzled. The room is almost as sparse as the rest, but the ceiling is decorated with cheap, plastic glow-in-the-dark stars. They are studying the constellations when surprise and pain surges through Them and They are suddenly lesser, a connection lost.

“You guys are fucking idiots, you know that?” a voice rasps in Their ears, sharp and cold. “I’ve seen the clips, heard the fucking spiel. Oh, we're the superior race! The future of humanity!”

They turn, searching for the attacker, and there is movement from the corner of Their eyes before pain and another connection cuts off like a light switch flipped. The shock ripples through Them, and They sway on Their feet, crying out in protest.

“God you’re full of yourselves. You follow me into my own fucking lair like just because there's a lot of you I’ll be totally defenseless.” More movement, but now, as pained as They are, They know he’s there. They dodge the next blow, and land one of Their own, a fist into Doctor Terrible’s stomach.

He stumbles back, and They have a second to savor his grunt of pain before They are shocked all over again, because he raises a bat and slams it across Their face. Agony pulses through Them, and then aching loss as another connection fails.

Confusion mingles with Their rage. He dares to attack Them with a mundane weapon? He can’t even fight Them with his powers, as a true villain should? Furious, They search for him, but the lair feels suddenly like a labyrinth. They stumble down the long corridors, cursing. Each loss feels like a missing limb. They will find him, and They will kill him for the harm he’s done.

They turn a corner, and They dwindle, almost hollow, as Doctor Terrible takes Them down a fourth time. He says, slightly breathless, “Guess what I figured out? As soon one of you gets knocked down, suddenly you're all chickens with your heads cut off.” He swings the bat again, and They are too dazed to even raise up Their arms as he strikes them a fifth and sixth time.

“You didn't get it. You thought I was making threats. You thought it was _posturing_. So, let me clear the goddamn air for you.”

They-- two-- go out at once and suddenly They are one again. He reels, sinking to his knees, overwhelmed by the sudden silence in his head. The loneliness is almost more shocking than the cold metal against his chin.

The bat forces his head up. He’s barely clinging to consciousness. Doctor Terrible leans close. For the first time, the name suits him. They-- He-- stares at Their blood splattered on the villain's pale cheek, and hears, like Doctor Terrible is speaking from another room, “This is my fucking city and you are _not_ allowed.”

It’s a relief when Doctor Terrible raises the bat. At least he won’t know how alone he is if he’s dead.

 

* * *

 

The news alert pops up as Simmons is about to play his first transcription of the morning. He reads the headline, frowns, and rereads it. “Huh. That doesn’t sound right.”

“What?” Grif asks, turning in his chair.

Simmons doesn’t answer for a second, scanning the article. Shock replaces disbelief. He says slowly, “So, uh, I guess Doctor Terrible wasn’t kidding about the no other villains thing.” He turns his screen so that Grif can read the news for himself.

He waits, but Grif just stares blankly. “Am I getting paid to read? No.”

Simmons huffs. “This is _important news_ , Grif! Like, alter the fate of Blood Gulch news, probably!” He's not exaggerating. He’s going to have to reassess the threat level of the Trio if they can take out a medium-level group of villains like the Zealots.

“Okay,” Grif says, and gives him an expectant look.

Simmons rolls his eyes but gives in. “Okay, you remember those Zealots guys?”

Grif frowns. “Yeah, the assholes from Battle Creek, right?”

“Yeah, apparently they made a move on the Trio and it uh, didn’t work out for them. Found them piled up in front of a hospital in Sidewinder. Concussions, broken bones, a couple are in a coma….”

Grif blinks and then snorts. “Uh, who wrote that article? They need to fact-check their shit. Those Zealots have like a body count of--”

“Doctor Terrible has a special wax seal. Left a sealed bloody letter with them. Said that the Trio had dealt with the Zealots, that next time they wouldn’t, uh, be so lenient to trespassers, and for villains to stay the fuck out of Blood Gulch.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Simmons says.

Grif whistles. “Huh. This is gonna make some waves.” He sounds almost impressed. Then he squints at Simmons. “A wax seal? Like out of some Austen thing?”

“Yeah.”

Grif rolls his eyes. “What a fucking nerd. Why can’t we have cool villains?” Then he grins, a sudden light in his eyes that has Simmons bracing himself for an insult or a weird joke. “Speaking of nerds… You totally think that wax seal thing is cool, don’t you?”

“Uh, nothing a villain does is cool, Grif, so no,” Simmons lies.

Grif snickers and then frowns at Simmons’ computer screen. He grimaces. “Seriously, though, this sucks. Like, everyone’s gonna want a piece of them now. Fuck. Why couldn’t they stay losers?” He sounds disgusted.

“Oh, Tucker!” Donut calls brightly.

Simmons looks up to see Tucker pause in the doorway.

“Did you hear about the Zealots thing?”

“Uh huh,” Tucker says. He doesn’t look impressed. Honestly, he looks grim. “Yeah. That’s...a thing that happened.”

“Who knew the Trio had it in them?”

Tucker snorts. “Yeah… The Trio….”

Simmons squints at him, confused by the sarcastic edge to his voice. About to ask if Tucker thinks that Doctor Terrible was lying, he’s distracted by Grif’s loud, drawn-out groan.

“Shit. I can’t tell if this means I’m definitely gonna win the bet or definitely gonna lose.”

Donut claps Grif on the shoulder. His smile is big, bright, and completely unsympathetic. “That’s kind of the definition of betting, Grif! You win or you lose! Suck it up.”

Grif grumbles under his breath for a moment and then suddenly grins. “Wait, where’s Sarge? I want to see his face when he finds out that the Trio are actually a threat. It’s gonna blow his mind.”

Someone whistles, a cheerful tune. It takes Simmons a second to realize that the sound is coming from Church, who walks past the door looking pleased with the entire world.

Simmons doesn’t think he’s ever seen the guy so happy.


	8. A Scolding and A Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective McAllister is unimpressed by the heroes' progress. Simmons gets a surprise party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Aryashi for looking this over for me and making great suggestions, and folks in chat for helping me figure out stuff with Caboose's homemade card.

Simmons has just set his headphones down when his cyborg eye flags a mention of Professor Stupendous in the local news.

When he pulls up Channel Seven’s website, a reporter says in a blandly cheerful voice, “Police are requesting that Professor Stupendous, In-and-Out, the Orange Blur, and Magic Mouth report to the laboratory where the power enhancement technology theft occurred immediately. The officer didn’t elaborate on why, but with the morning’s discovery of the Zealots left unconscious in--”

Simmons closes out the video. He doesn’t reach for his phone to say he’ll meet the others there, not immediately. Instead he just frowns reluctantly at the screen. He’ll go, of course. It would make him look unreliable if he ignored a direct summons by the local police, but… He really doesn’t want to go. He remembers how angry Detective McAllister was before. He can only imagine she’ll be even angrier now.

After a second, he sighs and texts, _Did anyone else see the news report? The police want me, In-and-Out, Orange Blur, and Magic Mouth back at the laboratory. I can be there in about twenty, depending on traffic._

_**Magic Mouth:** I can be there in thirty! _

_**The Orange Blur:** not getting there first, dudes, mcallister is gonna be pissed_

_**In-and-Out:** I’ll take one for the team ;) ;) ;) _

_**The Orange Blur:** she’s gonna shoot you_

_**In-and-Out:** hot _

Both of In-and-Out’s messages are accompanied by a string of emojis that Simmons squints at. They seem innocent enough, but he’s learned over the last few weeks that there’s probably some innuendo that he’s missing. He tries not to think about it, honestly.

Simmons is almost there when In-and-Out texts again.

_yeah, that hot detective is being a bitch!!!!_

_it's hot but also annoying_

_annoying winning over hot boo_

_she’s yelling a lot i wonder if she’s this loud in bed_

_**The Orange Blur:** stop _

Detective McAllister barely acknowledges Simmons when he enters the laboratory. She just shoots him a withering glare and continues with a cold, “I don’t know why my captain thought you could get results, but he did. Instead, we’ve got a mess.”

Simmons winces at the bite in her voice.

The Orange Blur is already there, his arms folded against his chest, leaning against the same desk as In-and-Out. “Hey, Professor. Detective McAllister is just telling us how we fucked up. I mean, pretty sure that’s what she’s telling us. She hasn’t called us fuck-ups, but it feels implied, what with the--”

Magic Mouth comes into the building. He starts to smile, his hand halfway up to wave, before he hesitates. He studies McAllister's expression. “Good afternoon?” he offers, in a slightly doubtful tone that turns it into a question.

McAllister ignores them both. She paces in front of the heroes, scowling. “Now that you’re all finally here, listen up. We need that tech back. The Trio are idiots who don’t know what they’re doing. They aren’t-- The Zealots--” She stops, her lips thinning. “Not getting themselves killed was lucky, but that luck is going to run out, and clearly the tech is making them bolder and stupider. Get the tech, bring them in.”

There’s a pause. Then In-and-Out asks, “Isn’t that what we were already going to do?” 

“Then you should’ve done it before the Zealots showed up,” McAllister snaps. “There’s six of you and three of them, and two of you have teleportation and speed powers! It shouldn’t be that hard to catch them!”

The Orange Blur snorts. “Uh huh. You know what powers we _don’t_ have? Invincibility. So yeah, Laserblade’s stupid swords can still cut us in half and Moonboose can still fucking drop a house on us like we’re the Wicked Witch of Oz, and we don’t even know what Doctor Terrible’s powers are, unless he’s actually a mundane who’s really messing around. That makes things kind of--”

“You’re the ones running around in costume. You signed up to do this! Though I guess I shouldn’t expect any better from you.”

Her voice hardens on the last word.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Magic Mouth says, looking offended.

“That means--” McAllister stops again. There’s an angry flush in her face. She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just get the tech, bring them in.” Her mouth twists bitterly. “Try not to activate Doctor Terrible’s mystery power, since you’re so worried. I’ll take it from there.”

Her tone’s a clear dismissal. Still, Simmons hesitates. He thinks about the awkward, roundabout way McAllister has to call for their assistance and do it at weird times of day. Maybe it’s time to think about allowing the police access to TeamUp. Then he imagines Detective McAllister having unlimited access to texting them. On second thought, maybe it's not a good idea. The communication via police scanners and the news has been working fine so far.

“Right,” he says. He glances at the others. “Maybe we should meet up and form a strategy?” He flushes under his mask at McAllister’s eye-roll.

The Orange Blur shrugs. “Sure. Tonight at 7. Or tomorrow night. Or whenever we can all meet up, I guess. The Professor can text everyone. Either way, Magic Mouth is paying.”

Magic Mouth protests, “What? Why? This isn’t Wine and Cheese Hour!”

“Because you can afford it, Moneybags,” the Orange Blur says.

“I seriously don’t have a Scrooge McDuck money vault, Blur.”

 

* * *

 

“Dude, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or what?” Grif asks. “Or just got a case of the Mondays?”

Simmons blinks. It’s only when he leans back in his chair that he realizes he’s been hunched over his keyboard, gritting his teeth as he works. His jaw aches with the sudden lack of tension. He resists the urge to roll his stiff shoulders.

Right, Grif asked a question. Simmons pauses.

He can’t exactly say that he’s grumpy over Detective McAllister’s scolding and the fact that it took three hours of bickering among the heroes to form the bare minimum of a plan: grab Laserblade, have In-and-Out or the Orange Blur frisk him for the tech, and then do the same thing for Moonboose. Simmons still thinks it’s stupid. All they know with Laserblade is that the tech lets him fight with two swords without any negative physical effects. There might be more to it. And the less said about trying to grapple Moonboose, a man who can literally manipulate gravity and constantly destroys buildings, the better.

There’s also the fact that the Trio has gone radio silent since the Zealots. What are they planning? It’s all making him anxious. Simmons mutters, “Yeah. We’ll go with it’s Monday.”

“Oh, Mondays aren’t so bad!” Donut chirps, turning in his seat. He laughs and adds with a sly note to his voice that makes Grif roll his eyes, “In fact, sometimes they can even surprise you!”

“Uh, okay?” Simmons says blankly. He looks at Grif to see if he knows why Donut is being weirder than usual, but Grif’s already turned back to his computer. Now that Grif isn’t looking, he rubs at his neck and tries to relax. It doesn’t really work.

“Simmons! The printer is out of paper!” Sarge barks, so suddenly that Simmons almost falls out of his chair. “I need you to go downstairs and get a resupply.”

Simmons glances at his monitor. They have five minutes before they generally clock out. “Uh, sir, I used the printer ten minutes ago and it was half-full. And we’re about to leave, so maybe I could do it tomorrow morn--” He trails off as Sarge’s expectant look doesn’t change. “Uh, yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Simmons opens the office door and shouting fills his ears.

He flinches and drops the paper on his cyborg foot. Amid his surprise as he squints at everyone crowding the office -- what are the guys across the hall doing here? Is that the HR guy? Is that the _owner of the company?_ \-- he realizes that five pounds of paper falling on most people’s feet would probably hurt. He fakes a belated, “Ow.”

Then Caboose says cheerfully, “Congratulations, Mr. Simon!” and throws confetti in his face.

It gets into Simmons’ normal eye. His next sound of pain is sincere. “Ow, fuck!”

“Caboose, I said _not_ in the face.”

“Oops.”

“You gonna need an eye patch, dude?” Grif asks. He’s not touching Simmons or anything, but he’s suddenly close enough that Simmons has to resist the urge to step back into the hallway and re-establish a personal space bubble.

Simmons’ normal eye keeps stinging and watering, but his cyborg eye is unaffected by the confetti. “I’m fine,” he says quickly. His cyborg eye is state-of-the-art with his own personal adjustments and should look normal at a casual inspection, but there’s no need to press his luck. He waves Grif off. “Just give me a sec. Also, uh, what’s happening right now?”

Grif snorts. “What, a nerd like you didn’t have today circled with like a smiley face? Today’s your one-month anniversary here. Donut and DuFresne are throwing you a party.”

“A _what_?” Simmons says blankly.

“A party, duderino! A shindig, a celebration, a bit of a jamboree!” Simmons has only seen the man once before, at his job interview, but it’s hard to forget that voice and way of talking. Mr. Vic grins at him. “Franky A and Franky B here said that it might be good for the ole morale if we threw a little congratulatory party, and I am always down for some good chow. So it’s my treat! Congrats, dude. Glad you made it a whole month.”

“Uh, thank you?” Simmons says. Then it actually sinks in, what they’re celebrating, and that they actually want to celebrate with him. “Uh, yeah, thank you.” It comes out a little wobbly, but if pressed, he’ll blame that and his watery eye on the confetti.

“I’m just here for the free food,” Grif says, but he grins as he says it.

 

* * *

 

The restaurant is more upscale than Simmons is expecting from Mr. Vic, who’s sporting a Hawaiian shirt and khakis. He’s glad that he’s stuck to business casual despite Grif constantly teasing him about it over the past few weeks. He’s the only one who doesn’t look out of place, though the waitstaff is too well-trained to stare at everyone’s T-shirts and worn jeans.

“We made you a card!” Caboose says and shoves something into Simmons’ hands as they all sit down at the table.

“Oh, uh,” Simmons says. He blinks down at the card, which is lopsided, covered in glitter, and has _Congratulations on One Month!_ in a dramatic flourish of cursive on the front. It gives off ‘congratulations on your month of sobriety from your seven-year-old kid’ vibes if he’s being honest. He’d think this whole thing was a practical joke after all if it wasn’t for Caboose’s guileless expression. “Did, uh, you make this, Caboose?”

“Yeah! Well, they helped.” Caboose nods towards Donut and DuFresne. “And everyone signed!”

“Oh,” Simmons says, knowing he’s repeating himself. He starts to open the card and then reconsiders. If someone’s actually written something nice, he doesn’t have the excuse of confetti in his eyes anymore. He tucks the card carefully into his jacket pocket instead, to read later.

“I’ll do the toast!” DuFresne offers once the waiter has brought the first round of drinks and everyone is looking over their menus. He holds up his wine glass expectantly.

“Why you?” Grif asks. “Shouldn’t it be the boss or the wannabe boss?” He gestures with his menu towards Sarge, who scowls at him.

“Uh,” DuFresne says. His eyes flicker towards Vic and Sarge and his smile turns forced. It’s clear he doesn’t trust either man to do a speech that won’t violate some sort of HR guideline, but also clear that he doesn’t want to admit that. Instead he says, “I want to work on my toasting skills?”

Church smirks. “I think we made the right decision, coming along,” he says to Tucker.

“Uh huh,” Tucker says. He takes a sip of his beer.

“Anyway!” DuFresne says brightly. He wiggles his wine glass, and everyone slowly holds up their own drinks. He smiles at Simmons, warm and sincere. “To Simmons, the newest member of the company, who’s doing a great job so far!”

Simmons has no mask to hide behind. He feels the heat creep into his face and knows that he must look as flustered and happy as he feels. He doesn’t trust his voice not to betray him even more, so he just takes a long swallow of his wine, smiling awkwardly over the rim of the glass.

“Right!” Sarge barks. He coughs and raises his glass again, staring around the table until everyone follows suit. DuFresne looks a little nervous as Sarge launches into a speech. “A great job! Knew you’d be a hard worker, and my instincts were right. Why, I bet you’ve improved our productivity by fifty percent! No way we’re not gonna always win the best office of the month from now on!”

Vic looks blank for a second. Then he laughs. “Oh, right, best office of the month. That deal that’s totally a thing and definitely real. Yeah, it’s gonna be a close one this month, dudes. So close. Keep up the great work!”

“So fake,” Tucker mutters under his breath. “And even if it was real, now it’s four against three. Not really fair.”

“Call it four against two. You do jack shit,” Church says, grinning a little, before he clearly remembers that Vic is their boss and can probably fire Tucker on the spot. His smile slips. “I, uh, mean, you do the bare minimum required to keep your job.”

Tucker makes a face at him. “Helpful. Don’t get the single dad fired, Church. I _will_ get fucking revenge.”

“The kid none of us have ever seen except in photos? Even Church and Caboose haven't met him, right?” Grif says. “I’m pretty sure he’s not real.”

Tucker stares. “Of course he’s fucking real! What the hell?”

“Just saying, could be stock photos.”

“No, dude. I just don’t want him meeting any of you assholes. You’re bad influences.”

Grif shakes his head. "There’s your mistake, Tucker. You shouldn’t have told anyone anything about your personal life. We didn’t need to know that you have a kid.”

Simmons chokes on his drink, hit by the sudden thought that Grif is secretly married. It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Grif doesn’t say anything about his personal life. They’ve started going to the bar down the street sometimes after work, hanging out a little, like they’re almost friends, but their conversations tend to stick to TV shows and zombie apocalypse plans. Maybe Grif’s married. Maybe he has _kids_.

“Grif, do you--” he starts to say, still wheezing from the wine, and then clamps his mouth shut.

Grif gives him a confused look. “Do I what?”

“Nothing,” Simmons says quickly, but Church laughs.

“Fuck, man. Grif with kids is a terrifying thought.”

Grif glares at Church. “Fuck you. Like you could even keep plants alive.”

The amusement leaves Church’s face, and Caboose says reproachfully, “You guys are being mean. This is Simmons’ party and I don’t think he wants you guys to be mean.”

“Sorry, Caboose,” Grif says. Then he looks towards Simmons and gives him a long stare that has Simmons flushed with embarrassment even before Grif drawls, “...Seriously, Simmons? You thought I had a _kid_?”

“What? You _just_ said--”

“ _Seriously_?”

Simmons drinks more of his wine and turns gratefully to the waiter when he approaches, even though he hasn’t actually decided on his meal yet. He ends up going with what the man suggests, which thankfully turns out to be a salmon dish.

The conversation turns to the Trio and the Zealots, because of course it does.

“I really didn’t think the Trio had it in them,” Donut says with a shake of his head. “I mean, before this, it was just a lot of property damage, right? But the Zealots were bad news, so I guess you could say they did Blood Gulch a service.”

“Bite your tongue, Donut,” Sarge growls. “I hate villains, but I hate ones who half-ass their villainy even more. They shoulda killed the Zealots and been done with it!”

“That would be murder,” DuFresne says. “And not something anyone should do!”

Sarge snorts.

Church grins. “I don’t know, I think letting them live was more impressive. Proves the Trio aren’t scared of making enemies.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Uh huh. And that’s not gonna bite anyone in the ass once the Zealots are out of jail--”

“When? When are they getting out of jail? They’re getting life sentences,” Church says. He frowns at Tucker, who frowns back. “And if they’re all kept separate in different prisons, it’s gonna be hard for their weird mind whatever thing to plot any jailbreaks or revenge shit. I don't think the Trio has anything to worry about.”

Caboose looks between Tucker and Church, frowning. He looks a little anxious. He says, loudly, “I don’t think we should talk about this.”

“We could talk about dessert,” Grif says, waving the dessert menu hopefully in Vic’s direction. “Or about how some politician is gonna use the Zealots thing to try for empowered registration again. Hey, maybe that's a new bet for the pool.”

Donut laughs. “Wow, someone doesn’t want to be re-elected,” he sing-songs.

“What’s the bet? What percentage he’ll lose against his opponent?” Sarge asks, looking interested.

Simmons, meanwhile, fiddles with his wine glass. There’s always someone every few years who isn’t content with limiting power registration to criminals. They try to get a bill through Congress to force registration on all empowered people and then get laughed out of office. With thirty percent of America’s population empowered, just like the rest of the world, everyone has a friend or family member with a harmless ability who doesn’t want to be put on a government list.

Simmons knows, objectively, that the bill won’t pass. But he still gets anxious at the thought of it. His father had always privately approved of the bills, when he was among like-minded friends who disliked the empowered hiding among decent, normal people.

“I’ll throw some money in,” Church says, looking amused again. “What did the last guy lose by? Thirty percent? I’ll go with that.”

“Bet’s fifty bucks,” Grif says.

Simmons pushes thoughts of his father away as Tucker laughs, looking at Grif in disbelief.

“ _Fifty_? What, are you guys made of money?”

“If you’re gonna be a wimp--”

“Nah, I’m in,” Tucker says. “Twenty percent.”

Grif nods. “I’m going with thirty-five. The dude has even less of a leg to stand on than usual. I mean, he’s trying to say _the Trio_ is a real threat.”

“They are,” Church says.

“Uh, no. They got lucky.”

“No, they didn’t,” Church says, annoyed.

“Dude, the Trio _sucks_ ,” Grif says.

Caboose nods slowly. “Yeah, Laserblade is awful.”

Tucker roll his eyes. Then he frowns. “Wait, what pool? You guys have a betting pool? Why’s this the first time we’re hearing about it?”

Sarge growls. “Because I refuse to take your dirty money!”

Tucker almost knocks over his beer as he throws up his hands. "Jesus, the office rivalry and best office of the month stuff is bullshit. Tell them!"

Vic looks up from his phone. Simmons is pretty sure he’s been playing Pokemon Go all through dinner. “What? I mean, nah, it's totally legit, dude, just the realest thing. Who wants dessert?”

“Oh, we have a betting pool about the Trio,” Donut explains. He smiles. “Like who’s going to die first!”

There’s a pause, in which Tucker and Church both look weirdly pissed.

Then Caboose nods. “Oh, I get it,” he says. He adds matter-of-factly, “It’s Laserblade.”

Church’s expression twists a little, like he wants to stay mad, before he smirks and huffs out a low, rough laugh. “Yeah, probably.”

“What? Fuck you guys,” Tucker snaps. He glares at Church and Caboose for a second, and then directs his glare at everyone. “You guys seriously bet on if one of the Trio is gonna _die_? That’s bullshit.”

“Man, you sound like DuFresne,” Grif says. “Don’t be that guy.”

“Hey!” DuFresne frowns. “I just think it’s a little morbid and an inappropriate workplace conversation--”

“See?” Grif says. “Either throw down some money or move on. Now, seriously, I want dessert.” He turns to Simmons, grinning. He waves the dessert menu in front of him. “Treat yourself, dude. It’s on the boss.”

“Limit to one dessert per person,” Vic says, this time without looking up from his phone. He ignores Grif’s groan of disappointment, other than to add, “I’m not made of money, dudes.”

Simmons does treat himself to mango mousse cake. He’s trying not to be obvious about licking the remnants of the glaze off his spoon when Tucker says, “Is everyone taking their leftovers home, because if not, I call dibs.”

“Hey, what the hell,” Grif protests. “You don’t even work with Simmons, you can’t get the leftovers from his party! _I_ should get first dibs!”

Sarge shakes his head. “Much as I hate to agree with the enemy--”

“Not your enemy, Sarge.”

“--Tucker _did_ call dibs, and those rules are sacrosanct. Plus, as many a great man has said, you snooze, you loose.”

“Besides, I’ve got a kid to feed,” Tucker says. “A real one. Who exists, you weirdo.”

“I think Grif has a point,” DuFresne says. “Not about him getting first dibs, because that’s not true at all, but it _is_ Simmons’ celebration, so if anyone has prior claim, it would be--”

“Everyone can keep their own leftovers,” Simmons says quickly. He looks at everyone’s plates and represses a shudder. Not that the entire meal didn’t look great, but he’s not eating anything someone else’s saliva has potentially touched. “I’m good. But Tucker did call dibs first so--”

“Traitor,” Grif grumbles.

Simmons hesitates once everyone’s finished packing their food into carryout containers. Do they expect a speech from him? He feels as nervous as he did when Ms. Andrews tried to interview him that first day as a hero. “Um,” he says, the word sticking in his suddenly dry throat.

Grif takes one look at him and snorts. “Dude, don’t get sappy. You’re welcome.”

Simmons rolls his eyes, but his nerves settle.

Vic slaps him on the back. “Good to have you on the team, dude! Glad you survived!”

 

* * *

 

 

When Simmons gets home, he hangs his suit jacket up to press in the morning. It’s only then he remembers the card Caboose made for him, that everyone apparently signed. He hesitates for a second, and then opens it.

Sarge’s signature is just the name Sarge, scrawled large and messy like he was inspired by John Hancock on the Declaration of Independence. Donut’s _Congratulations! We’re all so happy you’re sticking around!_ is written in sparkly pink glitter pen, with hearts instead of dots above the Is. DuFresne has written a short message about welcoming Simmons to the company family and to remember that DuFresne’s door is always open. Tucker and Church’s are about the same, variations on congratulations on not quitting. Church throws in a thank you for messing with Tucker’s laptop. Caboose’s is written almost as large as Sarge's, a bright blue  _Happy anniversary, Mr. Simon!_

Grif’s makes him laugh.

_Maybe having a nerd around isn't as bad as I thought it would be. But my zombie apocalypse plan is still better._

Simmons closes the card, smiling to himself. He isn’t even that annoyed when glitter flakes off and gets on the floor. For a day that started out frustrating, he thinks, it’s ending on a pretty good note.

He props the card up on his nightstand.


	9. In the Hot Seat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team composition is very important, and any disruption in the balance has long term consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for looking this over for me and suggesting the chapter title and summary for me!
> 
> creatrixanimi has done more art for the fic, so please enjoy [Sarge](https://cinaed.tumblr.com/post/185418457954/creatrixanimi-heres-sarge-for-cinaeds) in his hero costume! 
> 
> Also, fair warning, this chapter's a bit of a doozy!

Simmons knows a lot of facts, some useful, some not, and some only relevant in rare occasions. The latter includes the fact that the average temperature of burning buildings is 1,700 degrees Fahrenheit.

He wishes that it wasn’t relevant now as he hauls an illegally parked car away from the curb so that the firefighters can get access to the hydrant. He also wishes he didn’t know that human bodies are cremated at 1400 to 1800 degrees Fahrenheit. His cyborg parts are built to withstand stress and high temperatures, but the rest of him is human and easy to burn.

“We don’t want to get in your way,” Sergeant Blood says to the firefighters, his words at odds with the way his hand flexes on his gun like he wants to shoot the flames into submission. “Tell us what to do and we’ll do it.”

“Right,” says one of the men, who introduced himself as Hutch. He eyes them, his gaze lingering on In-and-Out. “You can teleport, right? How far and how fast?”

“Two hundred feet is easy. And I'm fast. Just point me where you need me.”

“We have people trapped on the fifth and sixth floors. Can you teleport up and grab them if they get to the windows? Magic Mouth, think you can persuade people to the windows if you can promise them safety?” When they both nod, he turns and barks, “Wynn! Get me a megaphone!” Then he turns back. “Sergeant, Professor, can you clear a path? We’ve got a lot of debris already blocking us from getting further inside.”

“If they clear a path, I can get to people too,” the Orange Blur says. “Get them out, fast, I just have to know where they are and have a path, so just tell me when the way’s clear and I’ll go.”

“That was gonna be my next suggestion,” Hutch says with a fleeting smile.

“I’ll help with the injured,” Doctor Pacifist says, the words barely out of his mouth before he heads back to the huddled crowd of people who escaped the apartment building before the fire grew too fierce. He was actually the one who called the others in this time, spotting the smoke before the first 911 calls were made.

Simmons spares a second to wonder if Doctor Pacifist lives in the area as he and Sergeant Blood approach the front door. From jumbled witness accounts, the fire started on either the third or the fifth floor. By now it’s spread to most of the building.

He and Sergeant Blood keep low to the ground, avoiding the smoke. His human eye still waters as his cyborg eye scans for signs of life or potential threats of debris. There’s a fallen ornamental column blocking the stairs. He drags it aside as Sergeant Blood moves quickly but carefully up the stairs, testing the steps as he goes, his shotgun at the ready if he needs to blast open a door or two.

Simmons feels the Orange Blur’s sudden closeness, and doesn’t have to look sideways to know the Orange Blur is there. He does anyway, and together they climb the steps after Sergeant Blood.

Sergeant Blood takes the left side of the hall. Simmons and the Orange Blur take the right. They find two kids hiding under a bed in the third apartment they check.

The kids take one look at Simmons and despite the danger, inch further away. Maybe Magic Mouth was right. Is his mask that scary?

The Orange Blur kneels. His voice is as fast as it always is, but there’s a gentleness that surprises Simmons. “Hey, guys. Everything’s really scary, right? All the smoke, all the heat, not exactly a fun night. It’s good that you guys are together though, keeping each other safe. But we gotta get you guys outside, okay? It’s safer there. Is there anyone else at home?”

One of the kids shakes his head. “Mom is gonna be home soon, but--”

“Gotcha,” the Orange Blur says. “Let’s get you guys out of here so she doesn’t worry, okay?” He extends his hands. This time the kids crawl out from under the bed. There’s a rush of air, and then the kids are gone and the Orange Blur’s hand is on Simmons’ shoulder. “Next apartment’s locked. Break the door for me?”

That’s simple enough to do. Simmons gets the door open and then there’s a flash of brown as something darts past.

It turns out to be a cat, who howls and squirms in the Orange Blur’s arms as he mutters, “Good idea, buddy.” There’s another rush of air, and then the Orange Blur says, arms empty, “Room’s clear. Next one?”

They clear the second floor without finding anyone else, the only interruption being the sudden shake of the building as the firefighters attack the flames with water hoses. The smoke is getting thicker though. Simmons coughs, his throat dry, and keeps going, starting up the steps to the third floor. They all stop, staring at the flames licking the top of the stairs.

“Shit,” the Orange Blur says. He fishes out his phone, coughing, and texts.

A few seconds later, In-and-Out pops into position just below them on the second floor. She curses, her voice scratchy, and says, “I can hop you guys to the fourth floor. The firefighters will be up in a minute.”

Simmons casts another look towards the flames, hoping that no one’s trapped, as Sergeant Blood says gruffly, “Take us there.”

In-and-Out presses something into the Orange Blur’s hand. An energy bar. “Eat it,” she says, and then grabs Simmons. There’s a weird sensation, like the pressure Simmons gets in his ears when he’s on a plane, and a jolt to his stomach, and two quick successions of smoke-filled sky and the same sensations. Then he’s standing in a hallway filled with smoke.

He coughs, bending and waving the smoke away from his face. There’s a door in front of him. He goes for it as In-and-Out pops out of view. When he touches the door with the back of his non-cyborg hand, it doesn’t feel warm. “Hello?” he calls, opening the door as In-and-Out deposits Sergeant Blood behind him and vanishes.

A weak voice answers him. His cyborg eye finds the woman amid the smoke, sprawled out on the floor. Her leg is in a cast. There’s a pair of crutches on the floor, just out of her reach. When he touches her shoulder, she mutters, “Fucking worst time to break my leg.” She tries to sit up, going into a coughing fit and leaning heavily into Simmons’ grip.

“Yeah, bitch, bad timing,” In-and-Out says, appearing beside the nearby window. She kneels down, wrapping an arm around the woman’s shoulders and nodding towards Simmons. The two women vanish with a pop of displaced air.

“Checked all the unlocked rooms,” the Orange Blur says behind him. “Just three that are locked.”

They clear the floor. When they search the fifth, they discover an upset beagle that thanks them for the rescue by burying its teeth in Simmons’ cyborg arm when he tries to pull it out from under the couch.

The Orange Blur laughs, a breathless, scratchy sound, and says, “Good thing this place doesn’t allow pets. Otherwise we’d be dealing with a lot more of this crap.” He pries the dog’s teeth off of Simmons’ arm and runs. He doesn’t come back cursing, which Simmons guesses means that he was fast enough not to get bitten too.

The sixth and final floor is almost impossible to check. The smoke is so thick that Simmons, the Orange Blur, and Sergeant Blood end up doing an awkward army crawl down the hall. Sergeant Blood finds an unconscious man in one room, and the Orange Blur finds an elderly couple unconscious in another. The Orange Blur heaves them onto his shoulders and runs them to the emergency exit at the end of the hall that leads out to the fire escape where In-and-Out can get them.

“Time to go,” Sergeant Blood says when they’ve checked the last room.

The Orange Blur groans a little. “Thank fuck,” he says.

They start their last army crawl towards the emergency exit. Simmons’ human eye keeps watering, but his cyborg eye notes the Orange Blur listing a little to the side, like he’s too tired or dizzy from the smoke to crawl in a straight line. Simmons slows down. “You okay?”

“Get some water and food in me and I’ll be fine,” the Orange Blur says. Apparently even his speedster abilities have their limits, because he’s still talking fast, but his words slur a little from exhaustion. He coughs, a hoarse, hacking sound that makes Simmons worry.

“Come on!” Sergeant Blood barks at them, already at the exit. He climbs out onto the fire escape. He’s still standing there, taking a deep breath of air, when there’s a sudden roaring sound. Flames climb through the steel gratings, licking at Sergeant Blood’s boots. He jumps, stumbling against the railing and gripping his gun like he’s going to try and smack at the fire.

There’s a pop of dislocated air, half-lost amid the roaring flames. In-and-Out grabs Sergeant Blood, muttering, “Crap, crap, _crap_ ,” and teleports them away.

She probably means to teleport back up for Simmons and the Orange Blur, but the flames roar again and crawl up the walls, closing off the exit.

Simmons stares at it for a second, running calculations. There’s no way they can get onto the fire escape now unless they both want to end the night with some burns. The flames are completely blocking the door, hot enough that Simmons can feel the heat through his mask from a few feet away.

“Crap,” the Orange Blur says when In-and-Out doesn’t reappear. He goes into another coughing fit. “She probably can’t get line of sight on us.”

Simmons grimaces. “Come on,” he says. It’s awkward to try and turn himself around without standing fully upright and inhaling a lung-full of smoke. “I can make us an exit.”

“Okay.” The Orange Blur crawls after him. “What are you gonna do, punch a wall?”

“Sort of,” Simmons says.

The Orange Blur’s laugh turns into another loud, nasty bout of coughing. When Simmons turns, the smoke and worry tightening his chest, Orange Blur waves him off. “Just punch the wall, Professor.”

Simmons gets into the nearest room, one with small windows. He takes a deep breath of air and then stands up. Smoke burns his eye, but it’s pretty easy to tear the window out of the wall using most of his arm’s power. It leaves a gaping hole too small for someone to escape through. He tears away another portion to widen it and then leans out, waving blindly towards the ground.

“Thanks,” In-and-Out says, grabbing him.

A second later they’re on the ground and a paramedic is approaching him with an oxygen mask. He doesn’t resist, breathing the smoke-free oxygen eagerly. It helps clear his head as In-and-Out reappears with the Orange Blur.

The Orange Blur gets the oxygen mask treatment too, sitting down on the curb next to Simmons. For a moment they both breathe together. The Orange Blur occasionally pulls off the mask to cough. He must be exhausted. He leans a little against Simmons, his shoulder hot against his.

When Simmons hands the mask back, he asks, “We brought three unconscious people out--”

“Too early to tell,” the paramedic says with a sympathetic look. He offers Simmons a bottle of water, which he accepts gratefully.

“Eat something,” In-and-Out says, hovering over the Orange Blur. She has another energy bar. She waves it in the Orange Blur’s face as he pulls the oxygen mask away to roll his eyes at her.

Simmons wonders if she carries them with her for this exact reason, when the Orange Blur has used his powers so much that he’s running on empty. He glances at the brand as the Orange Blur fumbles with the energy bar and makes a mental note to start keeping a supply on hand.

“If the Trio pulls any shit tonight, I’m kicking their asses,” In-and-Out says. She sounds worn out too as she sits down on the Orange Blur’s other side.

This close and with the Orange Blur’s energy running low, Simmons can actually make out the black face mask under his hoodie. The Orange Blur snorts. “Good.” He shifts his weight towards In-and-Out.

Simmons almost misses the warmth. Now that they're out of the building, the adrenaline crash is coming. He feels shaky and exhausted too, all of their effort catching up with him. But the Blur leaning against In-and-Out means Simmons can shoot to his feet unimpeded when he spies a familiar figure weaving past the firefighters towards them. Apparently Ms. Andrews is interested in an interview. He lingers though, worried by the Orange Blur’s persistent cough and the exhausted grayish tinge to In-and-Out’s skin.

“Uh, are you guys okay?” he asks quickly. “Because I was gonna--”

The Orange Blur laughs, the sound rough and deeper than usual from the smoke. “Dude, you’re gonna have to let Andrews talk to you again at some point.”

Simmons grimaces. “I know, I just, uh, another night.”

“Wimp,” In-and-Out says cheerfully.

Simmons ignores the insult and escapes past Magic Mouth, who’s cooing over the rescued cat. He passes by Sergeant Blood too, who gives him a half-nod of approval. Across the street he can see Doctor Pacifist consoling a few of the tenants.

By the time he gets home, he’s half-dead on his feet. The inner word choice makes him wince. He thinks about that impassable third story and hopes that no one was trapped. They probably would have heard someone but-- His stomach roils. He peels off his costume, wrinkling his nose at the smell, and does the bare minimum of preparing for bed. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have work tomorrow, because just the thought of dragging himself to the office makes him groan. Lastly, he sets his cyborg eye to wake him only for emergency alerts.

Then he falls into bed, asleep before his head hits the pillow.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Simmons does when he wakes up is stare in groggy surprise at his clock, which reads 11:35 AM. The second thing he does is pull up any updates on the apartment fire. So far no casualties, though the three people they found unconscious are still in critical condition and the firefighters are still combing the remains of the building. The third thing he does is drag himself out of bed and make a late breakfast or early lunch.

His head clears after eating, though he’s still tired. He remembers the Orange Blur’s comment that he’s going to have to talk to Ms. Andrews again at some point. He knows the Orange Blur is right, even if the prospect of another interview makes him queasy.

Simmons should do research. He can watch old interviews of the Blood Gulch heroes and see what kind of questions he should expect and what kind of answers he should or shouldn’t give to Ms. Andrews.

To keep up his normal civilian identity, he’s renting a two-bedroom apartment. The landlord is under the impression that he can afford it via some good investments in bitcoin, something Simmons actually hates with a passion, but it’s a decent lie. He’s converted the second bedroom into a small laboratory, with multiple computers and specialized tools. There’s a keypad with fingerprint recognition that he’s concealed behind a fern to ensure that his landlord doesn’t accidentally stumble onto something he shouldn’t.

He settles into his chair in front of one of the computers. A quick search finds plenty of old videos archived on Channel Seven’s website. What isn’t there is mostly a collection of uploaded grainy but serviceable videos on YouTube by a few devoted heroes fans. One on YouTube is labeled as Dylan Andrews’ first interview with Iteration. Simmons hesitates, morbid curiosity warring with a strange grief for someone he never even met. He doesn’t immediately press play. The video is from 2011, before any of the other heroes came to Blood Gulch. Iteration had already been the Blood Gulch’s hero for six years, taking down the villains using the city as a training ground.

After a long moment, he starts the video.

Eight years makes a difference, it seems. Ms. Andrews is clearly a little starstruck, her younger voice not the smooth professional one Simmons remembers from his disastrous interview. There’s a slight breathlessness to her words as she asks, “Excuse me, Ms. Iteration? Do you mind answering a few questions?”

Iteration laughs. The villain she's just defeated must have had water powers. She’s wringing her blond ponytail, squeezing water from it as she glances at Ms. Andrews. “Sure, kid. Ask away. But I don’t promise to answer any of them.”

“Right.” It makes Simmons feel a bit better about his interview to realize that Ms. Andrews’ brief pause probably means she’s forgotten the questions she intended to ask.

Iteration glances at her. “Okay,” she says, clearly amused. “Yes, I am proud to be Blood Gulch’s resident hero. Yes, I am ready and willing to fight any villain who decides to prove themselves here. Yes, I enjoy a challenge. That's one reason I've stuck with Blood Gulch. No, I won’t answer any questions about my civilian life and that includes my name, my relationship status, or my age.”

“People ask your age?” Ms. Andrews asks, and then flushes a little.

“Men do,” Iteration deadpans. Then she looks off-camera. The video shifts a little to see that a police officer is approaching. When Simmons squints he thinks that he recognizes a younger York. “Sorry, duty calls.”

Simmons pauses the video. He pulls out a notepad and makes two lists. One is for acceptable questions, the other for unacceptable ones. He can put his foot down on any questions about his civilian identity, just like Iteration did. He goes searching for first time interviews with the other heroes. Maybe he wasn't the only one hit with nerves.

Sergeant Blood’s from 2012 is exactly as awkward as Simmons thought it would be. Sergeant Blood doesn’t let Ms. Andrews talk, intent on delivering a speech that seems to be a muddled mixture of warnings about the space war and stories of fighting Nazis and aliens, and the occasional segue into talking about his amazing space gun. When he finally pauses to catch his breath, Ms. Andrews asks him why he’s chosen Blood Gulch.

A deep flush creeps into his face. He sets his jaw. “This city has the only hero worth knowing! Just look at some of these namby-pamby heroes running around, in it for fame and fortune. That’s not what being a hero is all about! You become a hero to help civilians.” His jaw softens, his expression broadening to a fierce grin. “And because ya enjoy a hell of a fight!”

The next heroes to wind up in Blood Gulch were In-and-Out and the Orange Blur, who apparently came as a matched set in 2014, stopping a robbery and dropping the trussed would-be thieves on the bank steps for the police.

In-and-Out spends most of her first interview hitting on Ms. Andrews and suggesting a threesome with her cameraman. Ms. Andrews has had enough experience since her first interview with Iteration to keep professional -- honestly, Simmons thinks she’s more amused than anything else -- but her cameraman keeps squawking behind his camera.

The Orange Blur doesn’t answer any questions, at least not for his first interview. All Ms. Andrews gets out of him is a sarcastic rush of words from behind his orange hoodie. “Yeah, being a hero was totally the plan, isn’t it a great plan? I just love this plan. This is gonna be _awesome_. Just love it. Love it love it love it.”

Doctor Pacifist is the next hero to join the team. He gives a big, earnest speech about what a great city Blood Gulch is and how happy he is to be there. He admits, without prompting, that he’s not sure how to use his invisibility powers as a hero, but he’s eager to learn and assist the other heroes however he can. “I just want to help,” he says, beaming towards the camera.

Last is Magic Mouth’s splashy introduction in 2017. Simmons remembers hearing about it, although he hadn’t thought about becoming a hero yet himself. But he remembers watching the video clip of Magic Mouth moving out of the crowd to talk to the villain who’s just used a concussion beam to send Sergeant Blood flying. Five minutes later the villain is in handcuffs, explaining tearfully to Magic Mouth how he’d always wanted to be an architect.

Magic Mouth actually pats the villain’s arm before the villain is maneuvered into the squad car. “Good luck! I want to hear about your first building, okay? Remember, you want to build stuff, not knock stuff down!”

Ms. Andrews starts to ask him a question, when the other heroes interrupt.

Chuckling, Sergeant Blood slaps Magic Mouth on the shoulder hard enough that Magic Mouth staggers sideways and almost careens into Doctor Pacifist. “I had him on the ropes, son, but I won’t deny that was some fancy talking!”

“Um, thanks?” Magic Mouth says with a quick smile, and then glances at Ms. Andrews as she asks, “So are you planning to stay in Blood Gulch or were you passing through?”

“Staying for a while, if they’ll have me!”

Iteration slings an arm across Magic Mouth’s shoulders, grinning at Ms. Andrews. “And now we’re up to six heroes!”

“What do you think draws heroes to your city?” Ms. Andrews asks.

“The variety of villains,” Iteration says. “You never know if you’re going to fight someone with fire abilities or concussion beams! It’s never boring. Before you ask, no, I didn't expect to wind up with so many heroes in my city, but I guess they all imprinted on me like ducklings.” She pauses. Her grin widens. “And they're about as useful.”

“Hey!” In-and-Out protests.

Iteration laughs. The laughter echoes through five pairs of identical lips as she creates copies of herself. Each version of Iteration loops an arm around one of her fellow heroes and gets them in a partial choke-hold before she lets them go. In a second only the original Iteration stands there, still next to Magic Mouth. “No, I'm glad they’re here. The more heroes to protect Blood Gulch, the better.”

Simmons pauses the video. Iteration’s smile freezes in place. It’s hard to imagine that a little over a year later Iteration would be dead, killed taking down a nameless villain, somehow alone and without her team. But the playlist has Iteration tribute videos included, the city mourning their oldest hero, the one who’d fought villains for its civilians for over twenty years. He feels that same grief as before, even though he didn’t know her. Maybe it’s a sympathy pain; he remembers accidentally mentioning her during that first Wine and Cheese Hour, how the anger and sorrow was palpable. Her loss haunts the other heroes.

Simmons hesitates. In the playlist alongside the tribute videos there’s one entitled, _Compilation of Hero Interviews After Iteration’s Death_. He shouldn’t watch it, but he clicks on it anyway.

He immediately wishes he hadn’t.

The first clip is of Ms. Andrews interviewing Sergeant Blood, who stares dully at the camera while she says, the words coming out solemn and even, only the redness of her eyes giving away she feels deeply about Iteration’s loss, “As the public knows, Iteration’s will stipulated that her identity not be revealed after her death. The city will mourn her as the hero she was, and allow her family, if she had any, to mourn her in peace. I’m standing here now with Sergeant Blood, who will speak about Iteration's devotion to Blood Gulch for twenty-three years.”

When Sergeant Blood speaks, his voice is thick and unrecognizable with grief. “I just need to say that Iteration-- that it was-- it was an honor to serve-- to--” His voice breaks. It turns out that he’s an ugly crier.

The video shifts to a different camera following Magic Mouth down the sidewalk. It isn’t Ms. Andrews, because the man’s voice is strident as he demands, “Channel Four News. Don’t you have anything to say to the public?”

Magic Mouth’s voice isn’t smooth or cheerful now as he turns and hisses, “What do you want me to say? That we miss her? Of course we fucking do! Do you want me to assure everyone that the rest of the heroes are staying in Blood Gulch? We’re staying. We’re _all_ staying. We’ll keep the city safe f-for her. Now leave me _alone_!”

“But--”

Magic Mouth is suddenly gone. The camera swings wildly around before it finds Magic Mouth at the end of the street, a familiar orange hooded figure whispering something in Magic Mouth’s ears. When the Orange Blur notices the camera, he gives it the finger, and then both heroes are gone.

In-and-Out’s interview with Ms. Andrews is mostly censored, her mouth and her hand gestures blurred out, but from what Simmons can piece together and guess at as he double-checks that his headphones are plugged in and the neighbors can’t hear her yelling, she’s saying that the villain got off lucky, dying with Iteration and the other victims. If he’d survived, In-and-Out would’ve killed him herself and made it as slow and as painful as possible. Her interview gets cut off partially through by the Orange Blur, who grabs her and carts her away.

The next interview is with Doctor Pacifist, who repeats some of what Magic Mouth said before, that they missed Iteration, that of course it was a terrible loss, but that the city should know that they’ll honor her legacy and continue her work. “It’s the least we can do,” he says, sounding weary and brittle.

Simmons realizes it’s the same pushy reporter as before when the man thrusts the microphone at Doctor Pacifist and asks, “And will any of you explain where you were that night? Why the mystery? Why didn’t any of you help her?”

Doctor Pacifist’s brown skin goes gray. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Then he shakes his head. His voice trembles. “You know what? This interview is over.”

“The public wants--”

“And if your channel wants more interviews from any of the heroes, sir, tell them to send someone with common decency and a heart!” Doctor Pacifist’s voice rises. He practically spits out the final words. Then he disappears from sight, a faint shimmer lingering in the air before that too vanishes.

The video ends.

Simmons blinks. He does a search, but there’s no interview with the Orange Blur about Iteration. The only thing he can find in an article four months after her death, describing the aftermath of Iteration’s death that mentions the Orange Blur’s continued silence. He closes out the videos. He clenches and unclenches his hands before he takes off his headphones. He’s home alone; the cyborg metal gleams in the light. He tries to roll the tension out of his shoulders and doesn’t succeed. He needs a distraction from the grief in his teammates’ faces and voices. Working on the interview dos and don’ts isn’t going to cut it.

Simmons remembers the apartment fire, the Orange Blur coughing and crawling behind him. The Orange Blur’s hoodie is probably the same one that earned his name five years ago. There’s no way it isn’t anything but flammable. In retrospect, they were lucky that neither of them got burned.

Simmons pulls up a few scientific journals and throws himself headfirst into research.


	10. Crushed Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trio's latest scheme doesn't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the chapters I've been most excited to write. Just a reminder to look at the tags for this fic, folks!
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for looking this over for me and coming up with the chapter title.

With the city hall’s repairs complete, Mayor Doyle decides to have a live-streamed celebration to reopen the building. In retrospect, he probably should’ve expected the Trio to crash the party.

His forlorn cry of, “No! The budget!” as Caboose plucks up a ten-foot tall column like it’s as light as a feather suggests otherwise. Simmons is on his way, but the video playing in his cyborg eye has a good view of the scene. He watches as the mayor wrings his hands and adds, “Please, gentlemen, we _just_ finished the repairs--”

“Yeah, why do you think we’re here?” Laserblade says, grinning. Two swords glow in his grip. He uses them to cut through the ribbon and Doyle makes another protesting sound before the police on duty grab him by the arms and hustle him away.

“Okay, Moonboose,” Doctor Terrible says, arms folded against his chest and a smirk on his face. “Show how much stronger you are now.” He glances towards the camera, and his smirk turns cold. “For any villains like the Zealots who think they should try us.”

Light reflected off Moonboose’s helmet makes it impossible to see his face, but Simmons can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Okay!” Then he throws the column into the air.

The crowd’s been milling around, presumably wanting to watch the show and ignoring the police officers trying to get them to leave the scene. Now they scatter with surprised yells and a few shrieks, though the column doesn’t land anywhere near the onlookers. It smashes the podium instead, turning it to shards of wood.

Distantly, almost lost amid the uproar, Simmons thinks he hears another forlorn, “My podium!”

When Moonboose turns to tear another column off the building, the Orange Blur appears and taps him on the shoulder. “Bystanders, gotta watch for the bystanders who don’t know when to leave. Give them a minute to get out of range. Unless you want to kill some civilians, which I super hope you don’t.”

“Hi, Mr. Blur!” Moonboose says cheerfully, and tries to wrap him in a grapple that would probably break a few ribs.

The Orange Blur darts out of reach.

The camera jerks, and a voice that sounds like York's says with exasperation, "Get out of here." 

The day before the Magic Mouth had texted everyone, _So the Trio are probably going to mess with the city hall celebration tomorrow, right?_

The ensuing discussion means that Simmons isn’t really surprised that everyone’s nearby and gets there quickly.

His cyborg eye flashes a message from Doctor Pacifist. _I can go invisible and try to grab Laserblade if Blur or In-and-Out want to find the tech!_

 **The Orange Blur:** _rather get moonboose’s first dude was too strong already_

Before Doctor Pacifist can go invisible, though, Doctor Terrible aims his gun at the heroes and fires. The shot goes wide, but it’s enough for Sergeant Blood to snort and say, “Son, someone needs to show you how to aim,” and fire off a shot that makes Doctor Terrible curse and dive to avoid getting hit.

“I mean, he’s not wrong,” Laserblade says, and then darts forward, swinging at Sergeant Blood. He moves quickly, getting in close so that Sergeant Blood can’t fire his weapon. Sergeant Blood dodges the swords, growling and trying to get enough distance between them that he can bring his shotgun up and presumably knock Laserblade unconscious.

Meanwhile, Magic Mouth steps forward, his hands up and a conciliatory look on his face. He smiles at Doctor Terrible. “Sorry, we’re interrupting your plan, aren’t we? But we’ve got to make sure the civilians get out of here safely. You know how strong Moonboose is!”

Doctor Terrible doesn’t smile back, but he does shrug. “Yeah, you guys always do.” As Moonboose picks up another column, his scowl turns back to a pleased grin. “But it doesn’t matter. Things are going great.”

“Really?” Magic Mouth says, sounding intrigued. “Why don’t you stay right here and tell me your big plan? I mean, you did such a good job with getting the enhancement tech and dealing with the Zealots, it sounds like you’re on a roll! What did you have in mind for today?”

“Destroy the entire city hall,” Doctor Terrible says, still grinning. “I promised Moonboose an ice cream if he can do it in twenty minutes.”

“Hey, you promised both of us ice cream!” Laserblade calls.

When Simmons glances towards him, trying to gauge his sincerity about the ice cream, he realizes that Laserblade is backing Sergeant Blood up to a temporary barrier set up for the event. Another minute, and Sergeant Blood won’t have any space to dodge the blades.

Simmons takes two steps towards them when there’s a strange whistling in the air and Magic Mouth says, alarm sharpening his voice, “Hey, get out--” Simmons turns his head and wishes that he’d reacted a little slower, because he sees the column Moonboose just threw land on Doctor Terrible.

The sound of the column crushing Doctor Terrible is going to frequent Simmons’ nightmares, with the sound the body makes as it hits the pavement a close second. He closes his eyes, swallowing against nausea and trying to block out the details of Doctor Terrible’s ruined skull and the blood splashed everywhere.

Magic Mouth says, his voice cracking, “Oh no. Oh no. Oh--”

“Oops,” Moonboose says, sounding guilty.

Simmons opens his eyes in time to see Doctor Pacifist shimmer into visibility just behind Moonboose, his arms frozen in mid-lunge and his eyes wide with horror.

“Fuck,” In-and-Out says, all usual humor gone from her voice.

Moonboose doesn’t pay them any attention. He walks over to Doctor Terrible’s body, moving a frozen and blood-splattered Magic Mouth to the side. He lifts the column and tosses it aside. It slams into the windows of the city hall, shattering a few. Then he crouches next to Doctor Terrible, patting his shoulder. “Sorry, Doctor Terrible.”

Laserblade snorts, lowering his swords. “Dude, staring at him isn’t going to do jack-shit. Let’s just call it a day.” Rather than sounding devastated, he just seems annoyed.

Simmons recovers his voice. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you people?” he demands.

“Yeah, uh, I know you’re villains, but seriously, that’s cold,” the Orange Blur says. He’s beside In-and-Out, a hand on her shoulder. “Like ice cold, Arctic cold, like fucking hell, he was part of your team!”

“Doctor Terrible,” Moonboose says, patting the corpse’s arm again. Then he sighs deeply. His expression is just as weird as Laserblade’s. He looks disappointed and a little embarrassed, like he dropped the column on Doctor Terrible’s foot instead of his head.

“Heh, nice one, Magic Mouth,” Sergeant Blood says, looking impressed.

“I didn’t-- he--” Magic Mouths says. His voice wobbles. He trails off into a hiccuping sound, like he’s about to cry, and his hands go up to his mouth, covering it. Muffled, he adds, “I didn’t mean to-- fuck!”

There’s a sudden flash of light, so bright that Simmons is temporarily blinded and his cyborg eye goes offline for a few seconds. As he blinks his watering eye, he hears a furious howl.

“GODDAMNIT! I KNOW THAT WAS YOUR FAULT, MOONBOOSE!”

“Laserblade did it,” Moonboose says immediately.

Simmons’ vision clears, though he blinks a couple times to make sure that his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him as Laserblade says, “I didn’t drop the goddamn column on his head!”

Doctor Terrible is sitting upright, looking perfectly fine. All the splattered blood and brain matter are gone from the pavement. It’s like he was never dead at all. Only the way he rubs at his head and glares at Moonboose is testament to what just happened.

“Well, that’s almost impressive,” the Orange Blur says blankly.

“Thank fuck, dude. I didn’t want to deal with your stupid corpse for a week,” Laserblade says. “Why can’t your powers act the same every time?”

“I’ve been asking the same thing my whole goddamn life,” Doctor Terrible grumbles. “It’s not even a damage thing! One time Moonboose dropped a car on me and I was back in thirty seconds.”

“And then you broke your neck falling off a ladder,” Moonboose says, sighing. “Two weeks felt like forever.”

“The rotting smell was super gross,” adds Laserblade, grimacing.

Doctor Terrible glares. “Not helping. And you fuckweasels aren’t getting ice cream.” Then he blinks and glances over at the heroes, as though he just realized that they have an audience. He immediately looks even more pissed off. “Fuck, so much for having that in our back pocket. Goddamnit.”

“Sorry,” Moonboose repeats, and then adds under his breath, “Laserblade’s fault.”

“And can you guys at least _pretend_ to be upset? It’s pretty sad when the only person choked up is a hero!” Doctor Terrible points at Magic Mouth, who’s sniffling, tears sliding under his mask and down his face.

“I thought I killed you!” Magic Mouth says. He takes a half-step forward and stops. “I probably shouldn’t hug a villain. But I didn’t-- I never-- I thought I killed you!” His voice rises and cracks.

Doctor Terrible looks uncomfortable. He rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, you didn’t. And it would’ve been Moonboose’s fault anyway. Don’t take credit for villains’ shit.”

Laserblade groans. “You’re such a fucking sap.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Magic Mouth stares at Doctor Terrible. “Does dying make you feel sick? Or hungry? I have a granola bar for Blur, but you--”

The Orange Blur interrupts, sounding torn between amusement and irritation. “Mouth, don’t feed the villain. Especially not food you were gonna give to me!”

Doctor Terrible stares between them. “Yeah, this is officially too awkward. We’re out.” He sulkily throws something to the ground. Smoke billows out. When the smoke bomb clears the Trio are rounding the corner of the street.

There’s silence for a second, and then Sergeant Blood chokes out, “Diabolical! A villain who won’t stay dead?” His face is flushed red with outrage, his knuckles white where he grips his shotgun.

“That was _so_ gross,” In-and-Out says. Now she sounds amused and ghoulishly impressed.

Meanwhile, Simmons’ head is spinning. From what he’s just witnessed, Doctor Terrible can resurrect himself, though the resurrection time varies. He rapidly re-evaluates how dangerous the man is, if he can’t actually be killed, but he is also distracted by the power itself. As far as he’s aware, people don’t come back from the dead. He’s heard of accelerated healing abilities but not this, where Doctor Terrible was completely dead and then alive again. He has so many questions. 

“Has anyone else heard of resurrection powers?” he asks. “I’ve never heard of an empowered person with that ability.”

“No,” Doctor Pacifist says. He looks queasy.

“We should try to figure out more,” Simmons says. “It’s fascinating--”

The Orange Blur snorts. “Fascinating? And here I was thinking you were gonna say it complicates the fuck out of any plan to capture the Trio." He pauses. "Though I guess we could just kill him and then hand his body over to the cops and let them deal with him when he resurrects. But Doc would probably object on moral grounds or some shit.”

“I would,” Doctor Pacifist agrees firmly.

The Orange Blur crosses his arms. Simmons can’t see his face, but he can feel the weight of the Orange Blur’s stare. “And why do you care? Pretty sure he can only resurrect himself. Hopefully. Man, now that would be weird, if he could pull a Lazarus trick. What, is it his coming back from the dead thing? Don’t tell me you’re religious or something.”

Simmons frowns. “No, I’m an atheist, I just-- aren’t you curious?”

“Nope,” the Orange Blur says.

It probably says something that he leaves it at that, but Simmons can’t help but ask, “Seriously?”

“Dude, once I’m dead, it doesn’t matter,” the Orange Blur says sourly. He moves, darting away from them to the shattered windows of the city hall building. A second later most of the broken frames are in a pile. “Who wants to drive themselves crazy wondering if God and life after death and all that bullshit is real? Or why some people have powers and what those powers mean? So no, I'm not gonna worry--”

The strident wail of a police siren interrupts him. A squad car pulls up to the barrier, lights flashing. Detective McAllister and Detective Washington get out.

Washington looks around, grimacing at the damage to the city hall and the broken columns. “Yeah, the mayor’s gonna cry over that,” he deadpans. Then he glances at the heroes. His grimace turns to a worried look. He walks over to Magic Mouth, who’s still breathing shakily, now that Simmons is paying attention, and looking pale and upset beneath his mask.

“I told you guys to get the tech and bring the Trio in,” McAllister growls. Her voice rasps as though it’s taking all of her self-control not to yell. Sarcasm drips off every syllable when she adds, “Do I need to say it simpler?”

“Hey, give us a break,” the Orange Blur snaps. “We just saw Doctor Terrible die and then come back to life. That would rattle anyone.”

Washington looks over from where he’s got a comforting hand on Magic Mouth’s shoulder. His eyes go wide. His mouth hangs open for a second before he says, incredulous, “He did _what_?”

In-and-Out nods. “Yeah, dude got his head smashed in and then flash! He was okay again! Just pissed. It was gross and kinda cool. And kinda--”

“Don’t say it,” the Orange Blur groans at her tone shift. “Please don’t air your weird-ass kinks to everyone.”

“You should’ve grabbed the tech,” McAllister says.

“Uh,” Simmons says, and winces when McAllister directs her glare at him. He licks his lips behind his mask. “Did you hear what the Orange Blur said? Doctor Terrible has resurrection powers. That’s unheard of!”

McAllister’s expression falters for a second. Then her green eyes narrow. “I wasn’t listening to the Orange Blur’s excuse. And even if I had been, I wouldn’t have believed him. People don’t come back to life.” She says this last sentence with a bitter emphasis.

“Well, Doctor Terrible can, detective,” Sergeant Blood says. He still sounds furious. Simmons is pretty sure that he mutters, “Absolutely diabolical!” under his breath.

McAllister’s mouth twists. “Well, even if he can, I still don’t care. Does it make him a bigger threat? Just get the tech and bring them in. And try not to kill him next time. It’s not very heroic.”

“It was an accident!” Magic Mouth says miserably. He sounds ready to cry again.

Washington makes a face in McAllister’s direction. He pats Magic Mouth’s shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort and says, “I think they got it, Carolina. Next time they won’t be surprised. How about we just get some statements for the report?”

McAllister’s jaw tightens. “You can do it,” she says shortly. “I’ll call in an update.” She stalks back to the squad car.

“Uh, right,” Washington says, blinking. He frowns after her for a second. He says something low to Magic Mouth, who shakes his head violently. Then Washington steps back and glances around at the other heroes. He fishes a notepad and a pencil from his duty belt. He fidgets with the pencil, tapping it against the paper. “So…. Run the whole Doctor Terrible dying thing by me again?”


	11. Through a Mirror Dimly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Stupendous and Laserblade get stuck in a Star Trek episode. It's a lot less fun than it sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes out to creatrix and Aryashi for indulging me with this bit.

The next time the Trio shows up, Simmons goes straight for Doctor Terrible.

He knows the plan, to grab Laserblade and have In-and-Out or the Orange Blur search him for the enhancement tech, but when Simmons sees Doctor Terrible, he forgets everything else. “You!” he says, a little relieved. From his observations and research, sometimes Doctor Terrible will send the other two out and make himself scarce for a while. In retrospect, it might’ve just been that he was dead and Moonboose and Laserblade were on their own as they waited for his eventual resurrection.

Doctor’s Terrible aim hasn’t improved; it’s easy enough to dodge the wild shot and get up close.

Simmons can see Moonboose eyeing him, but when he doesn’t grab Doctor Terrible or attack him, Moonboose goes back to throwing bricks at Sergeant Blood.

“Personal space,” Doctor Terrible growls, trying to back up.

Simmons matches him step for step. There are so many questions he wants to ask, his head cluttered with them, but the first one that comes out of his mouth is, “So what do you see or experience when you’re dead?”

Doctor Terrible almost shoots himself in the face as he fumbles with his gun. “ _What_?”

“Do you see anyone else? Do you have out of body experiences?”

“Dude, what the fuck,” Doctor Terrible says flatly.

“I want to know! This isn’t fast healing! Laserblade and Moonboose mentioned your body rots! It sounds like there’s literally no brain, muscle, or heart activity! What’s happening there?”

Doctor Terrible stares at him for a second. Then he says, raising his voice a little, “Laserblade, please come and stab this weirdo.”

Simmons frowns. Feeling a little defensive, he protests, “I’m not weird! Can you blame me for having scientific curiosity? I’ve never heard of anyone with resurrection powers. And yours are like something out of a video game, I just want to--”

“Yeah, just gonna stop you right there. I’m not answering your questions.”

“But,” Simmons starts to protest, and then stops as Doctor Terrible’s eyes flick past him and he gets a strange look on his face. Simmons spins, half-expecting Laserblade to be creeping up on him, but instead he just sees a police car pull up to the curb, lights flashing, and a familiar redheaded detective get out.

“Uh,” Doctor Terrible says. Even his voice sounds a little weird, higher than usual. “Moonboose! Laserbalde! The professor is making things weird. We’re going!”

“Okay,” Moonboose says cheerfully, dropping a crumbling brick on the ground. He takes Doctor Terrible by the arm and then does his new jump, clearing half the block in a few easy strides as Doctor Terrible yelps and clutches at him.

“We’re doing what?” Laserblade says, looking around from his position in front of In-and-Out. His voice rises. “Oh, you assholes! Fuck all of you!” Then he bolts, going for one of the alleyways, waving his swords wildly to keep anyone away.

“Really?” Detective McAllister snaps. “No one’s going to go after him?”

“His swords are just too dangerous,” the Orange Blur deadpans. When she glares, he’s suddenly no longer there.

When Simmons looks around at his fellow heroes, he realizes they’re all making themselves scarce too. In-and-Out teleports herself to a nearby roof, blowing a kiss and a cheerful, “Maybe next time!” at McAllister, and Sergeant Blood straight up just props his shotgun against his shoulder and nervously whistles as he backs away.

Simmons can’t really blame them. McAllister looks furious. He should probably leave too.

He takes a page out of Laserblade’s book and ducks into an alley as McAllister shouts, “ _Seriously_?”

There Simmons stops, surprised at the sight of the Orange Blur. He would have thought that the Orange Blur would be halfway across the city by now. Then again, he probably stuck around to tease Simmons for asking Doctor Terrible those questions.

Before the mocking can start, Simmons says quickly, “Oh, hey. Wow, McAllister sounded mad.”

He’s surprised all over again when the Orange Blur says in a tone Simmons has never heard from him, “Fuck, I’m glad I found you. Like, seriously glad. Really thought I was going to fuck this up.” Earnestness colors every word, and that’s-- Weird. And wrong. And Simmons might have only known the Orange Blur for a little over a month, but that voice pings all of his instincts of something not being right.

Simmons takes a cautious step back. He knows that people can't shapeshift, that's not an empowered ability no matter what books and media say, though if that’s what this is, some villain who can actually shapeshift, the villain hasn’t done their research. He tries to surreptitiously reach for his phone to text the real Orange Blur. “Uh. Who are you?”

“The Orange Blur,” the guy says.

Simmons can’t help the incredulous noise that escapes him.

The guy adds, “Just not _your_ Blur. Just listen for a minute, okay? Crap, I didn’t think through how to explain it, but I figure you’re a nerd in any universe, so-- uh, multiverse stuff? Alternate universes? Totally a thing, and I’m from one and I need your help. In-and-Out is in trouble.”

The earnestness is still weird, but it’s the Orange Blur’s voice. And when he mentions In-and-Out, his voice changes, turns worried but with that thread of fondness that the Blur that Simmons knows always uses even at his most exasperated, when he’s groaning over something In-and-Out just said or did.

That fondness is what convinces Simmons. He frowns. “She’s in trouble? What kind-- wait, you have the ability to travel to alternate universes? How? Our world doesn’t have that technology, and as far as I know, we’re a decade or two away from even the remotest possibility--”

“Yeah, definitely a nerd,” the Orange Blur mutters. “Uh, from what I can tell, our villains are a lot better than your usual dumbasses, so technology had to advance faster. We’ve got a lot of tech shit you don’t, which means if someone gets grabbed and locked away, it’s a lot harder to rescue them.”

“Oh,” Simmons says, warring between envy and relief. It sounds like the other universe is a lot more dangerous. Maybe after he’s helped In-and-Out,get away from whatever villains have her, he can get a look at some of the technology there. Then he thinks of something. “Wait, can’t the other me help rescue In-and-Out?”

“No,” the Orange Blur says, so grimly that Simmons knows that his alternate self is dead.

The thought makes him queasy. He licks his lips behind his mask. “Oh, uh, sorry.”

“Now let’s go,” the Orange Blur says. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, and Simmons isn’t going to press him for details on his own death. The Orange Blur pulls some small box out that Simmons immediately fixes his cyborg eye on, curiosity breaking through the queasy contemplation of his own mortality.

Then the Orange Blur presses a button and Simmons gets distracted by watching a hole rip through reality.

The air splits soundlessly, a hole growing in its place until it’s large enough for the Orange Blur and Simmons to pass through like a gateway. Within the gateway is the same alleyway, but slightly different. There’s a storm in the other reality, rain turning everything gray and indistinct. There’s a distant crack of thunder.

Simmons stares, wonder crowding out everything else. When he reaches out, his hand passes harmlessly from one reality to the next. The rain is cold, heavy droplets landing in his outstretched palm. “Wow, that’s--” He yelps at the warm hand settling firmly in the small of his back.

The Orange Blur pushes Simmons through the gateway.

 

* * *

 

The Professor’s yelp rings through the alley as he stumbles through the weird hole.

Tucker watches as the Orange Blur steps through after him.

When the reality thing doesn’t immediately close, Tucker makes a quick decision. He jumps up from where he’s been crouched behind the trash bin, trying to avoid detection, and creeps up to it. The other alleyway is empty; the Orange Blur probably whisked the Professor off to wherever the other heroes are planning on In-and-Out’s rescue.

He steps through before it can close. He adjusts his hood as the rain pummels him. The whole thing is weird, but he knows one thing. He’s totally going to steal some tech that doesn’t even exist in their universe and rub it in his universe’s Church’s face. And Caboose’s, for good measure.

It’s only as the hole closes behind him that he thinks to wonder just how different the two realities are. What if the Trio here doesn’t have the same lair? From what the Blur said, it sounds like they’re totally badass in this universe. Maybe they’ve got a fancier place. He needs their advice, but it’s going to be an issue if he can’t figure out how to contact them. Also, he’ll have to figure out how to steal the reality-hopper or call a truce with the Professor to get back home.

He checks his phone. Junior is visiting his grandmother tonight, so he doesn’t have to be back to his universe until five o’clock tomorrow afternoon. That should be enough time.

Well, it won’t hurt to go to where the lair exists in his universe and start from there.

Tucker’s hit by a wave of relief when he sees the familiar sight of the lair. He’ll get their advice, maybe bargain with them somehow so they’ll help him get some cool tech shit, and then he’ll figure out how to get home.

When he gets to the back entrance, he frowns down, confused. Where’s Caboose’s stupid “secret entrance” welcome mat? Tucker knows that Church threw theirs away after the Zealots thing. Maybe something similar had happened here. Or this is a universe where Tucker hadn’t shown Caboose Megamind.

He’s fishing through his pockets for the key when a space opens in the wall beside the door and a security camera comes out. “Uh,” he says, freezing in place as the camera peers at him. He flinches as an unexpected red light scans his face, making his eyes water.

“Identified. Welcome, Laserblade!” a robotic voice chirps.

“Uh, thanks,” Tucker mutters as the door opens. He can’t decide if he should suggest the eye scanner to Church or if it’s too creepy. He’s leaning towards creepy, if he’s honest with himself.

“Hello?” he calls. He almost calls out for Church and Caboose, and then stops himself just in time. What if they don’t know each other’s identities in this universe? “Moonboose? Doctor--”

“You’re not Laserblade,” a curious voice says, and a hand closes on the back of Tucker’s neck and lifts him off the floor.

“Uh, hi, Moonboose,” Tucker says, trying to grin and look friendly as his feet dangle off the ground. When Caboose just frowns at him, looking confused, he adds, “I’m not your Laserblade. I’m from another universe.” He debates successfully explaining the situation to Caboose. “So can I talk to--”

“Church!” Caboose yells. “I found another Tucker!” He sounds unenthusiastic about the fact even as he gently lowers Tucker to the ground.

“You found a _what_?”

Well, that answers the whole secret identity thing. Tucker doesn’t try to squirm out of Caboose’s grip. He’s learned from experience it just ends up leaving unnecessary bruises. He glances around as Caboose shouts, “Another Tucker!”

Even if the Orange Blur said the Trio was more badass in this universe, the lair’s still pretty gloomy. The only immediate difference besides the new security measures is that someone painted the walls blue. That’s it. Tucker had been kind of hoping for something cooler.

“What the fuck,” Church says flatly. When Tucker looks in the direction of his voice, he has his arms crossed and looks pissed. Not that he doesn’t usually look mad, but he looks extra pissed off.

Tucker grimaces and waves. “Uh, hi. Please tell me you know about alternate universes.”

“We do now,” a strange but familiar voice says, and another Tucker grins at him. “Man, this is cool and weird.”

Tucker squints. “Is that what I sound like?”

“Yeah,” the other Tucker says.

“I don’t like this,” Caboose says grumpily.

“Shut up, Caboose,” both Tuckers say.

“Church,” Caboose whines.

Church rolls his eyes. “Okay, so you’re apparently from another universe. Sure. Life is weird. But why are you here?”

Tucker, about to tell them about the Orange Blur’s reality-hopper, hesitates. They’ll probably help him, but they might be bigger assholes than in his universe. Maybe he should try to make a deal instead. “I was thinking we could do a trade. My information for some of your tech and you guys helping me get home.”

Church studies him. “Depends on the information, but yeah, probably. At least the getting home part. One Tucker is enough for our universe.”

“He’s not staying?” Caboose asks, looking relieved. “That’s good.”

Tucker doesn’t glare at him, but the other Tucker does, scowling between Church and Caboose. “You guys aren’t funny.”

Tucker takes a breath. “Okay. So the Orange Blur has a reality-hopper thing. I guess you guys are more technologically advanced than our reality or something? Anyway, he grabbed our Professor to help him--”

“Your Professor?”

Tucker frowns at everyone’s blank expressions, and then remembers the Professor asking about his alternate self and the Blur’s flat response. Maybe the Professor lived in another city or something? “Uh, nerdy dude with a cyborg arm?”

“Oh, _him_ ,” Church says with a snort. “Yeah, okay. Different reality, different name.” Then his eyes narrow. “So the Orange Blur has a way to jump through realities and grab allies?”

“Yeah. They’re going to rescue In-and-Out.” A belated thought occurred to Tucker. The Orange Blur had said she’d been grabbed and locked away. It doesn’t sound like a plan his universe’s Church would come up with, but maybe this one had bigger ideas. He tries to keep his voice casual. “So, uh, do you guys know where she is?”

“Yeah,” Church says. He looks smug. He glances towards Caboose. “Let him go.”

“Okay!” Caboose says. His hand drops away from Tucker’s neck.

Church nods at Tucker, looking almost friendly now. “Thanks. We’ll get that tech from him and send you home.”

“Awesome,” Tucker says. He thinks about the Professor, who definitely didn’t know what he was getting into if the Trio here is strong enough to kidnap In-and-Out. He feels a guilty pang. The dude’s annoying, but Tucker probably shouldn’t ditch him in this universe to this Trio. He adds, aiming for the same casual tone he used asking about In-and-Out, “And I’ll take the Professor with me.”

Church raises an eyebrow. “You sure? If your reality doesn’t have the same tech, might be safer to leave him here.” He smirks. “We’re always happy to help put another villain in jail.”

Oh _fuck_.

Tucker smiles weakly.

He is in such deep shit.

 

* * *

 

Simmons gets a few seconds to breathe in the different air and marvel that stepping into another reality hadn’t felt strange, just like going through a regular doorway. Shouldn’t it have felt different? He wants to look at the machine and figure out how it works.

He’s about to ask if he can look at it before he goes home when the Orange Blur says, “Come on,” and scoops him up bridal-style.

Simmons yelps for the second time in as many minutes, embarrassed heat flooding his face even as he instinctively wraps his arms around the Orange Blur’s neck. “What are--” The question gets lost as the Orange Blur runs.

The other time the Orange Blur carried Simmons had been so brief that Simmons had blinked and been in the new spot, slightly dizzy. He doesn’t even know if the Orange Blur carried him like this the previous time, or if he’s just doing it because he’s running such a long distance.

This is different. Now it’s lasting long enough that Simmons can notice things, like the way everything around him and the Orange Blur is blurred and disconnected, and the strange lack of air against his face, like somehow the speedster abilities provide the Orange Blur protection from the wind whipping the skin off his body or damaging his eyes. And he definitely notices the Orange Blur’s arms, one tucked under his knees and the other wrapped around the middle of Simmons’ back.

The Orange Blur must not be used to carrying anyone these distances either, because the hand on Simmons’ back keeps slipping, dipping down his spine. At one point the Orange Blur accidentally grabs his ass and Simmons almost lets go of him in surprise.

By the time the Orange Blur stops, Simmons is ready to burst from embarrassment and curiosity. When he’s set back down on his feet, he says, “Uh, wow. I never, uh, considered how your body stays intact running at the speeds you do. I guess there’s a self-preservation aspect of your abilities? That’s so cool that it also affects anyone you’re carrying. I wonder--”

The Orange Blur snorts. “Nerd.”

Some things didn’t change in any universe. Simmons is too excited to be really annoyed at the faint mockery in the Orange Blur’s voice. He shakes his head. “Excuse me for having some scientific curiosity-- oh.” Queasiness has crept up on him. It feels like he’s been on a roller coaster one too many times. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, hoping his stomach will stop lurching unpleasantly soon.

“Yeah. Forgot to warn you about that,” the Orange Blur says. His hand lingers on Simmons’ shoulder, pushing him slightly backwards. When Simmons feels something hit the back of his legs, he drops onto what turns out to be a couch. “It sucks big donkey balls, but hey, maybe you won’t throw up? If you do, there’s a trash can next to you. You try not to barf. I’m gonna eat. Then we’ll figure out how to rescue In-and-Out.”

“Okay,” Simmons says faintly. He closes his eyes for a minute. The couch is ridiculously comfortable. He half-sinks into it. When he feels a little less like he’s going to actually be sick, he opens his eyes and glances around.

He doesn’t _think_ the Orange Blur would bring him to his actual apartment, but maybe he has and just doesn’t intend for Simmons to see outside and orient himself. The room feels cozy. There’s a second sofa that looks just as comfortable as this one feels, and a large-screen TV that’s currently just playing a video of a beach, waves crashing soundlessly against the shore, sunlight sparkling off the water. There’s no personal knicknacks though.

Simmons is giving the room another curious glance when the Orange Blur wanders back in, eating a family-sized bag of potato chips.

He chews and swallows noisily and says, “So. In-and-Out.”

“Right.” Simmons sits up straighter. He swallows against his sudden nerves. There’s a plush pillow next to him. He almost starts fiddling with it, and stops himself before he can betray how nervous he is. “I’m happy to help, of course, though, uh, I don’t actually have experience in breaking into places.”

“You’ll figure it out,” the Orange Blur says with that same earnestness from before.

Simmons is grateful for his mask, because he can feel the heat flood his face. Even his ears warm with flustered happiness. He wonders what the other Simmons had done before he died to earn such easy confidence. “Oh,” he says. The word sticks in his throat. “Uh. Yeah! So do you know where In-and-Out is being kept?”

“Yeah,” the Orange Blur says. He finishes the bag of chips and tosses it at the trash can. “I got Magic Mouth to coax a guy into making us a map. I figure, we’ll get in, you can stop the alarms and security shit, and then I’ll get us all out.”

There’s a rush of air, and then the Orange Blur offers Simmons a piece of paper.

“So the people who have her…. Is it the Trio?” Simmons asks as he takes the paper. “You said they were more powerful in this universe, right?” He can’t see why the Trio would want to kidnap In-and-Out though, unless it’s to try and make a splashy statement.

“They’re involved,” the Orange Blur says shortly.

Simmons, about to look at the map, pauses. “Wait, so does that mean there are other villains in Blood Gulch, working with them?”

“Can we focus?” the Orange Blur says, waving towards the map.

“Right.” Simmons scans the map carefully, wondering even as he did so why Magic Mouth, Sergeant Blood, and Doctor Pacifist aren’t here, working on the rescue plan with them. He forgets to wonder when he studies the hand-drawn map. It’s both detailed and annoyingly vague at the same time.

It’s a sketch of a building. There are details about where each alarm and accompanying security measure is, and a mark to note which room In-and-Out is being kept but otherwise there’s nothing, except a niggling feeling in Simmons’ head like he’s seen something like this before.

“That’s weird, it looks like a,” he says slowly, and then snaps his mouth shut as he realizes why this sketch, as vague as it is, is so familiar. He tries to breathe normally, but either his voice or the catch in his breath gives him away, because the Orange Blur takes a step closer.

“What?”

Simmons knows the Orange Blur is tall, but he’s even more aware right in this instant when he’s sitting and the Orange Blur is towering above him, staring down at him with the black mask that suddenly seems a lot less friendly than it had a minute ago.

He swallows and forces brightness into his voice, “Uh, nothing. So are Magic Mouth and the others available to help us? Or did, um, did they get hurt when In-and-Out got--”

“Fuck,” the Orange Blur sighs. “I told Magic Mouth to make it _vague_.”

Simmons opens his mouth to try and play dumb, his mind racing as he tries to figure out the likelihood of grabbing the machine and escaping from a speedster. His throat closes up and his mind goes blank as the Orange Blur puts another hand on his shoulder.

It’s a heavy hand. The opposite of steadying, it pins Simmons back against the cushions. He remembers how easily the Orange Blur had carried him. Was his universe’s Orange Blur as strong? He licks his lips and then gives up on pretending. He says slowly, “So In-and-Out is in jail.”

“Uh huh,” the Orange Blur says flatly.

“And you’re both villains. And you want me to help you break her out of prison.”

“Bingo.”

“I don’t--”

The Orange Blur leans in a little closer. The weird earnestness has vanished from his voice. His voice is cold and matter-of-fact as he says, "Yeah, here's the deal. You're not going home until you rescue her."

Simmons stares. Then he groans. “Shit. I’m in the goddamn Mirrorverse!”


	12. The Mirror Crack'd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Stupendous breaks into jail. Laserblade has a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The other half of the chapter I'd been wanting to write. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for letting me throw another 6,000 words at her in like a day.

“Shit. I’m in the goddamn Mirrorverse!”

Simmons’ words hang awkwardly in the air, and then the Orange Blur snorts. He actually sounds a little amused when he says, “What? No, _you’re_ the one from the Mirrorverse.”

Simmons scowls at him. Acutely aware of the Orange Blur’s nearness, he debates keeping his mouth shut. His annoyed correction still slips out. “You're the villain! I bet you have an evil beard under that mask. That makes _you_ the Mirrorverse one.”

“No--” The Orange Blur cuts himself out with a shake of his head. His grip tightens on Simmons’ shoulder. His voice rasps with frustration as he growls, “We don’t have _time_ for this. Like I said before, it’s simple. You get In-and-Out out of jail, you get to go home.”

“And if I refuse to help?” Simmons asks, dry-mouthed.

“Then start figuring out a place to stay,” the Orange Blur says flatly.

Simmons stares. His skin crawls at the thought of being stuck in this reality where everything is wrong and where his alternate self is apparently dead. All he’ll have left of his universe is a phone with old messages from the other heroes and the costume he’s wearing. He somehow manages to keep his voice steady. “You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack, dude. In-and-Out isn’t spending another fucking night in prison.”

There’s nothing but hard sincerity in the words. The Blur is completely serious.

For a second panic chokes Simmons, but with the panic comes outrage. How dare this Blur pretend to be a good guy and trick him like this? How dare he threaten him? Simmons glares. “What is  _wrong_ with you?” he demands. “In my universe the Orange Blur is so much cooler and you know, a _hero_. Like yeah, he's still kind of mean sometimes and complains a lot, but he's a hero, we _save_ people. We saved people from a burning building last week! You should’ve seen-- How do you go from an amazing guy like that to _you_?"

He spits out the last word.

The Orange Blur doesn’t say anything. With his mask, it’s impossible to read his expression. Simmons tenses the longer the silence goes on. He doesn’t trust the the Orange Blur enough to relax when the Blur finally steps back, his hand sliding away from Simmons’ shoulder. After another second, the Blur snorts. “Does he give big dumb speeches too? Or is that just you?” He doesn’t give Simmons a chance to respond, adding, “Shit happens, dude. Now, are you gonna help, or are you gonna keep wasting both our time?”

“I,” Simmons says and deflates. He doesn’t want to help -- if In-and-Out is a villain, she’s clearly done stuff to deserve jail -- but he doesn’t want to stay here. The idea makes his skin crawl again. And when his cyborg eye calculates the odds of stealing the reality-hopper from a speedster, there’s a snowball’s chance in Hell that he could escape back to his universe on his own. “Fine. But I’m not hurting anyone.”

“Didn’t ask you to, hero,” the Blur says. This time Simmons can hear the eye-roll, but also a hint of relief. “Just want you to break in. I can handle the rest. It's just a little trickier than robbing a bank.”

“Which I’m sure you have a lot of experience with,” Simmons says sourly.

The Orange Blur actually laughs, though there’s a sharp edge to his amusement. “It pays the bills.” He gestures at the map that Simmons has managed to crumple into a ball during the argument. “Now figure some shit out.”

Simmons glares down at the map as he smooths the map back into a vague semblance of flatness. He frowns at the lack of detail, but already his mind is turning over the problem and examining it from all angles. “Since I know this is a map to a prison, can I get some better schematics? This is crap. Do we know anything about guards? Like their schedule or if they’re empowered too?”

“I told you, I’ll handle the rest. Just figure out how to mess with the security tech.”

Simmons huffs in annoyance. He refocuses on the map. He’s done mental exercises like this before, trying to figure out how to dismantle the security measures in place at his companies. It’s a puzzle, and he and his powers like puzzles and figuring out solutions. It’s a good stress reliever. Still, testing his companies’ weaknesses is much less challenging than breaking someone out of jail.

It probably shouldn’t be as interesting as it is.

“Okay,” he mutters, tapping a finger against the first notation, and gets to work on the puzzle.

 

* * *

 

Tucker keeps the weak smile on his face. He needs to get out of here.

“No, uh, my villain, my responsibility,” he says. He tries not to be too rattled by the fact that everyone around him is a hero, and he doesn’t have his Church or Caboose for back-up, but he is. He also tries not to stare at anyone, wondering what the difference was, what made them all turn right instead of left. “But can we hurry? I’ve got to get back to Junior.”

To his surprise, Church’s smirk shifts to a genuine grin. “So you have a Junior in your universe too? Cool. Give the kid a high-five for me.”

“You’ve _met_ Junior?” The surprised question escapes his mouth before he can bite it back.

“Uh, duh,” the other Tucker says, squinting at him. “Who wouldn’t want to meet my, uh, our awesome kid? Why wouldn’t you…?” He trails off. A second later, a familiar sword appears in his hand. “Yeah, something’s weird.”

“No, nothing’s weird,” Tucker says quickly. “Caboose just _really_ hates babies in my universe.”

He wasn’t really expecting Church or the other Tucker to buy the lie, but even Caboose frowns. “Junior isn’t a baby. He’s a kid.” Then Caboose blinks. Something like enlightenment dawns on his face. He starts to smile like Christmas has come early. “Oh! You’re a bad guy!”

Tucker doesn’t wait around to see the penny drop for Church and the other Tucker. He bolts. The exit is only a few feet away, he can get out and go try to find the other villains in this stupid opposite world, and--

Caboose looms beside him, still grinning.

Tucker dodges his long-armed grasp. He ducks as a laser sword hums over his head. He even gets his fingers around the doorknob. Then hands close like handcuffs on his wrists and someone body-slams Tucker so hard into the wall that he sees stars.

“Ow, fuck.”

His head is still spinning when Caboose grabs him by the scruff of the neck again and pulls him away from Church. When Caboose lifts him off the ground, Tucker summons his swords. He’s not going to hurt Caboose too badly, but he’s also not fucking going to prison in this shitty universe and never seeing his kid again.

“Stop that,” Caboose says firmly, and shakes him so hard that Tucker’s teeth rattle.

Tucker ditches his swords so that he doesn’t accidentally stab Caboose in the gut. By the time Caboose stops shaking him, Tucker’s head is ringing and hurts so much he can’t focus enough on the remembered feel of the swords in his hands to get them back. His fingers clench on empty air.

“Put him in the cell. We’ll deal with Blur and this Professor guy first. Then I have questions.”

The rage in Church’s shaking voice makes Tucker’s stomach drop. That’s not the voice of a guy willing to listen to reason. Tucker licks his lips and tries anyway, looking around at Caboose and the other Tucker too. “Come on, guys, I don’t want any trouble. I just want to go home to my kid.”

“You’re a _villain_ ,” Caboose reminds him, sounding delighted.

Panic tightens Tucker’s chest. “With a kid! You can’t-- don’t make me be a deadbeat dad.”

“He’s going to lose you anyway,” Church says. The raw bitterness in his voice makes Tucker jerk his gaze off the other Tucker, who looks half-sympathetic at the mention of Junior, to stare at him as he adds, “Villains don’t exactly have a long life expectancy.” It’s weird, the way he says it. Tucker’s Church gets the same seething hatred towards villains in his voice sometimes, a bunch of fucked-up emotions twisting his face, but there’s something different about the way he says the last part, like that fact _hurts_. His Church would be smirking.

The thing is, Tucker _knows_ his universe’s Church isn't okay, that he’s a screwed up mess of rage and grief and intensity. He's known that since they first met. The guy has no poker face. But Tucker didn't know what to do about it, other than offer some advice so that the guy didn't end up dead in his first few months as a villain. He’s still not sure how he went from giving Church advice to joining with his team of villains, but he had, and everything mostly worked. Tucker had liked their weird status quo until the Zealots thing.

Apparently Church not being okay is a universal constant, like Caboose being obnoxious.

Tucker doesn’t know what to think about that, other than it sucks and makes him feel bad, so he focuses on what he does know: he has to get back to Junior.

“Please,” he says. When no one’s expression softens, he panics. What’s Junior going to think when he doesn’t pick him up tomorrow? He kicks wildly at Caboose’s legs. “You’re not putting me in a fucking cell, Caboose!” When Caboose shakes him again, he tries to twist and claw at Caboose’s face.

“Stop,” Caboose says again, frowning at him.

“Fuck you,” Tucker hisses breathlessly.

Caboose’s frown deepens. “This isn’t fun anymore,” he complains. He gives Tucker another shake. “You ruin everything.”

Tucker snarls. He’s dragged, kicking and flailing, to a small cell, where Caboose tosses him inside like he’s a sack of potatoes. He hits the far wall with a thud, pain radiating up his shoulder. The barred door slams shut.

“Some stupid bars aren’t gonna keep me from my kid,” Tucker says. He reaches to pluck his swords from the air and grasps at nothing. Whenever he’s reached out before, if he could focus, he’s always felt the swords waiting for him. Now there’s nothing. He tries again. It’s like his swords never existed.

Church smirks coldly. “Why the surprise? Do you guys not have nullifying cells?”

“Nullifying what?”

“You can’t use your powers,” the other Tucker says. Unlike the other two, he doesn’t look happy with the situation. He’s frowning, his arms crossed, the way Tucker does whenever he’s conflicted about something. A faint hope kindles in Tucker’s chest, snuffed out a second later when the other Tucker says, “You guys go ahead. I’m gonna ask him a quick question about how he manages to get two swords. Then I’ll catch up.”

Church snorts. “Okay. Come on, Caboose.”

Tucker throws himself against the bars as soon as Church and Caboose are out of earshot. He meets the other Tucker’s eyes, searching for that earlier sympathy. “Listen. Just, look, my Church stole us some power enhancement tech, I can give you the company name if you let me out. Or fuck, dude, take mine, just get me out of here. I have to get back to Junior! I can’t-- I know I’m a villain, but Junior’s my _kid_.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s the only reason I’m doing this,” the other Tucker mutters. He pulls an electronic card from his pocket and then pauses. His expression turns cold. “I’m letting you go, but if you fucking do anything to hurt my friends or anyone else while you're here, I'll lock you up myself and go and steal your Junior. They can be twins or something.”

Tucker’s knees almost buckle in relief. He grins at the other Tucker as his alternate self taps the card against the wall and the cell door opens. “The best twins ever, but you’re not getting him.”

“Then don’t fuck up,” the other Tucker says. He pauses. “So, the Professor. Cyborg, geeks out about how people’s powers work?”

Tucker snorts, remembering all of the Professor’s questions about his swords. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“So he’s a hero in your world, but you still want to help him?”

Tucker stares at the other Tucker, who looks genuinely curious that Tucker wasn’t going to ditch the Professor here. He rolls his eyes. “Dude, no offense, but this opposite world fucking _sucks_. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. The Professor is just an annoying nerd.”

“Yeah, okay,” the other Tucker says, snickering. “The Orange Blur and your Professor will be at Merope. Mid-level prison, has this same nullifying shit.”

“Right.” Tucker should go, but now he’s curious too. “Just, uh, one last question. Why’d you become a hero?”

The other Tucker laughs. “Dude, how else was I going to pay for Junior’s college? Sponsorships are awesome!”

Tucker stares at him, and then lets out a heartfelt, " _Fuck_. Fuck, I am a dumbass. I could be rolling in money like In-and-Out.”

The other Tucker blinks. “Wait, she’s rich in your universe too?”

“Uh, yeah? Got a sponsorship with the actual In-and-Out people.”

“Huh. Here she just stole a lot of shit.”

Tucker slaps a hand over his eyes and groans, both from frustration and from the pained twinge of his shoulder. “...Crap, we’ve never even robbed a bank. What the fuck kind of villain am I? God fucking damn it.”

“Yeah, feeling much better about letting you go now,” the other Tucker says, smirking.

“Fuck you,” Tucker says. “And, uh, thanks.”

“You better go,” the other Tucker says.

Tucker doesn’t have to be told twice.

 

* * *

 

The Orange Blur bridal-carries Simmons again.

This time Simmons is pretty sure it’s just to mess with him. He clings grimly to the Blur’s shoulders and tries to focus on the task ahead of him. His heart jumps to his throat when the Orange Blur stops in front of the prison.

The building is big and imposing, like any prison should be. Simmons can instantly feel tension twist his shoulders and set his heart pounding. He licks his lips as the Orange Blur sets him on his feet. “So, uh, what happens if I try to get her out and fail? Am I still stuck here?”

The Orange Blur snorts and says around a mouthful of an energy bar, “Yeah, you’re not gonna fail, so fucking stop with the quitter’s talk. All you have to do is mess with the security stuff, keep it from trapping us and alerting the whole city that we’re here. You can do that.”

“Right,” Simmons says, taking a deep breath. He has to do this. Then he can go back to his reality and never think about this awful place again. Okay, he’s going to wonder about this place again, especially about how he died and why the Blur is a villain, and--

A heavy hand grips his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Getting them into the building isn’t the difficult part. There’s a side door marked guard access only, with a keypad and a fingerprint scanner. Simmons’ powers activate at this puzzle; he fights between nerves and an unsettling satisfaction as he hacks the keypad and convinces it that his thumb print belongs to one of the guards. It's definitely not the difficult part. The difficult part is taking about two steps into the prison and hearing a guard snap a surprised, “Fu--”

Simmons blinks. There’s a motionless guard at his feet. All his anxiety and complicated triumph disappears beneath rage and disbelief. He doesn’t even think, just makes a wild grab with his cyborg arm for the Orange Blur’s throat. His fingers close on fabric and then the Blur’s neck. Simmons hesitates for just a second, startled that he managed to actually grab the Orange Blur. Then he tightens his fingers around the Orange Blur’s throat. Even with his cyborg hand, he can still feel the reverberations as the Blur’s breath catches. He shoves the Orange Blur against the wall.

“I’m out,” he snarls, his voice shaking. He’s too furious and horrified to get nervous at the way the Orange Blur is staring at him and not even trying to get away. “I’m not being a fucking accessory to murder! I’ll find my own way home, talk to the heroes, but fuck you and fuck--”

“He’s not dead,” says the Orange Blur. His hands are still at his sides, unresisting, though his fingers twitch a little. Simmons can’t figure that out, or his tone. The Orange Blur sounds amused, but also a couple other things, a tangle of emotions that Simmons can’t begin to decipher. When Simmons points a shaking finger down towards the guard, the Orange Blur groans, another movement of his throat that Simmons can feel. “Come on, dude, do you have any idea how much of a bigger pain in my ass the Trio would be if I _killed_ someone? He’s just unconscious.”

“Oh,” Simmons says. He deflates a little, embarrassed as he notices the guard clearly breathing. He lets go and takes a step back. “Right.”

He tries to ignore how his powers are enjoying this challenge, how satisfaction floods him each time like a shot of dopamine as he successfully hacks the next guard post. The technology is more advanced here, but that just makes his powers buzz with greater intensity.

“You sure this is your first time?” the Orange Blurs asks when Simmons breaks through the next post’s security measures, this time a specialized nine digit number that he creates a backdoor to get around. The Orange Blur has forgotten about personal space, practically hovering at Simmons’ shoulder as Simmons’ fingers fly across the keyboard and change the code to prevent any other guards from interfering. They might just be knocked unconscious, but the fewer unconscious guards Simmons and the Orange Blur leave in their wake, the better Simmons will feel about this whole shitty thing.

Simmons squirms away from him, scowling. He can feel heat flood his face under the mask. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Just saying. You might have more fun as a villain.”

“Shut. Up.”

The Orange Blur laughs. Simmons doesn’t have time to react to the genuine amusement, because the Orange Blur grabs him and runs them to the next outpost, pausing only to knock a guard unconscious.

In what feels like no time at all, they’re at the last gatepost.

Once Simmons hacks this one, they’ll be inside the cell block where In-and-Out is being held. This door is trickier than the rest, with multiple codes, a fingerprint scanner, and a final password. There’s a heady rush of satisfaction when Simmons gets through them all. “There!” he says. “Now we can get In-and-Out and I can go home.”

“Uh huh,” the Orange Blur says, sounding distracted. He steps through the door, ducking a little so he doesn’t hit his head on the door-frame. Simmons blinks in surprise as the Orange Blur wobbles on his feet and mutters a sharp, "Shit, fuck, ow."

Simmons moves on instinct, an automatic, “Are you okay?” falling from his lips even as he steps through the doorway.

It’s like going deaf. The humming power in the back of his head is gone. All the whispering complaints from the hacked machines are gone too. His head is empty of everything but his own confused thoughts. He stumbles too, dizzy with surprise, and leans against the wall for support. “What--”

“Yeah, it sucks,” the Orange Blur says sourly. He seems steady again, but he's moving oddly slow as he starts forward, calling over his shoulder, “If I ever meet the dude who invented null cells, I’m gonna break his nose. Come on, we gotta get to her before we have a million guards on our ass.”

“Oh,” Simmons says. He stares at the walls, fascinated. “Your world discovered a way to nullify an entire wing of a building? How? We can barely get nullifying handcuffs working--”

“No clue,” the Orange Blur says. Impatience turns his voice harsh. “Don’t care.”

“Uh, right,” Simmons says, and follows.

In-and-Out is stretched out on her cot, one arm flung across her eyes, asleep. She looks weird in the prison uniform, the bright orange like a mockery of the Orange Blur’s faded hoodie. Simmons is surprised, and then surprised by his own surprise, because of course they wouldn’t let her wear her costume.

Before he can accidentally see her face, which feels like an invasion of privacy of the hero In-and-Out, he focuses on the keypad beside her cell. He starts to hack it, and then pauses with a grimace at the silence in his head. It’s losing that instinct to breathe, only instead of having to pay attention to the diaphragm every time, now Simmons has to remember how he'd hacked into the other keypads. This one is similar to the others. Simmons _knows_ he can do it, with or without his powers. But now he has to think over each step, feeling a little like he’s balancing on one foot the entire time. The quiet and the banished itch between his shoulder-blades would be a relief on any other day, but now he’s too aware of it. It's the opposite of an itch, like a phantom pain he keeps imagining. Maybe that feeling will pass, but he's not staying in the null cell block to find out. He scowls at the keypad as he works.

Meanwhile, the Orange Blur tosses something through the bars and says, his voice warm and completely at odds with the words, “Wake up and say thank you, dumbass.”

“What-- Fuck! It’s about time!”

“You’re welcome,” the Orange Blur says. Then he turns, seeming to register that Simmons is still working on the keypad. “You’re not done?”

Simmons glares and doesn’t bother to explain what the null cell block is doing to him. He refocuses on the keypad. It takes him twice the amount of time it had with the others, but finally he jabs a few numbers into it and the door opens.

In-and-Out rushes out and immediately tackles the Orange Blur into a hug that actually lifts him off his feet. They must be a couple in this universe too, because the Orange Blur makes a few halfhearted groans but doesn’t try to shove her away.

Simmons stands awkwardly by the door, half-watching for guards, half-watching In-and-Out keep her arms around the Orange Blur and say, “Bitch! What took you so long?” She’s wearing her mask, which must be what the Orange Blur had thrown to her, but Simmons is standing close enough that he can see how her eyes are bright with relief and happiness.

“Uh, null cell blocks aren’t exactly easy to break into. Also, you’re welcome. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

In-and-Out releases him and then turns. She spots Simmons and stops dead. “Seriously?” There’s disbelief in her voice, and Simmons remembers with a start that his alternate self is dead. “How the--”

The Orange Blur interrupts her, impatient again. “Long story, tell you later. Unless you want to stick around and get caught. I don’t know about you, but I don’t wanna be null cell buddies.”

 

* * *

 

“Thanks for the ride,” Tucker says to the cab driver, who thinks he’s the hero Laserblade. Apparently another thing the heroes get that villains don’t are free rides. Tucker is feeling more stupid by the second.

“Yeah, sure, man,” the cabbie says, grinning at him. “Anytime.” Then his eyes slide past Tucker’s and his expression changes. Tucker turns to see the Orange Blur, the Professor, and In-and-Out standing in the prison parking lot. “Uh, fuck. Good luck with the jailbreak, Laserblade! Now please get out of my cab.”

Tucker obeys, climbing out. Now that he’s caught up to them, though, he’s not sure how to approach or what the situation is. Like, there’s no way the Professor helped with a jailbreak except under threat, but he doesn’t know what kind of threats were involved, or if the Blur plans to send the Professor back. Man, if Tucker has to team up with the nerd against the Orange Blur and In-and-Out, he’s going to be pissed.

He decides to sneak up on them, since they don’t seem to be about to teleport of dart away.

“Ugh,” In-and-Out grouses, plucking at the orange prison sleeve. “That was the worst. Can we please go the fuck home, bro?”

Tucker forgets to be stealthy. “ _Bro_?!”

Everyone starts talking at once.

“Oh, shit, a hero,” In-and-Out says.

“ _Laserblade_?” the Professor says. “Wait, _bro_? Are you two--”

Tucker offers him an awkward wave. “Hey, Professor.”

“Professor? Who the fuck is the Professor?” In-and-Out demands.

“Wait, what was I called in this universe?” the Professor says, and then Tucker can see the second understanding hits. The guy practically falls over in relief. “You're my Laserblade!”

Tucker snorts “Uh, I'm not your anything. But yeah, can we get the fuck home? This universe sucks. Also, alternate universe Trio is on their way, so, uh, yeah.”

“Bro, what the fuck is going on?” In-and-Out shouts.

“I’ll explain when the Trio isn’t about to show up,” the Orange Blur says. Tucker swallows down a surprised laugh as the Blur scoops the Professor up in his arms.

The Professor doesn’t even fight it, just mutters, “ _Seriously?_ Why _?_ ” in a resigned voice like this isn’t the first time the Blur has done it. This universe is seriously weird.

“Meet us at hideout three,” the Orange Blur says, and then they’re gone.

In-and-Out glares where he was standing. She stomps her foot. “Ugh, fucker.” She pops into the space right in front of Tucker. Up close, she looks the same as his universe’s, besides the prison outfit. She gives him a speculative look and says, “If he won’t explain, you’re gonna, right?”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Tucker assures her, leering halfheartedly. Honestly, this whole day has sucked. He really just wants to go home to Junior.

“Promises, promises,” she says, giving him a wink. Then she grabs his hand and teleports them, block by block, to a staircase, and then into a nice-looking apartment with comfortable couches and a huge TV.

Tucker’s not surprised by the Orange Blur and the Professor beating them there, but he is surprised by the way the Professor’s arms are crossed and the weirdly accusing tone he uses when he asks, “Why are you letting everyone think you’re dating your sister? That's really weird!”

“Seriously, what the fuck is going on?” In-and-Out says. Before anyone can answer, she rolls her eyes. “Never mind, I don’t actually care. Ugh, I need to get these shitty clothes off me.” She pops out of sight.

Tucker glances between the Blur and the Professor. “I hate to agree with the Professor, but yeah, it’s a little weird. Like, I’ve seen shit online that’s trying to figure out what powers your babies would have.”

“What?” the Professor says, distracted. “That’s stupid. There’s no genetic disposition towards being empowered, and even when families have powers, it's never the same ability, so--”

The front door to the hideout slams open.

“That was  _so stupid_ you _barely_  had a plan you could have gotten _caught_  or _worse_ \--”

A second Professor Stupendous storms inside, his creepy mask’s single eye glowing an intense red. He comes to a halt only a few steps inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

The first Professor says, sounding stunned, “Uh, wait. I’m not dead in this universe?”

In-and-Out pops back in, wearing her costume. She folds her arms against her chest and looks between the two Professors, clearly not liking the sight. “No, you're just a dead ass bitch,” she says flatly. “Bro, why the fuck are there two Mister Machines?”

“That’s a horrible name,” the Professor says, his voice weak, as his alternate self snorts.

“You didn’t rescue me when I was in prison, why should I rescue you?”

In-and-Out throws up her hands. “Oh, come on! You were in like baby jail and could break yourself out, dickweasel! _I_ got stuck in a power nullifying block!”

There is a pause, and Mister Machine coughs. “...Okay, so I may have assumed that first offenses would--”

“God, you're a dumbass,” In-and-Out says, disgusted. “Seriously, bro, why? Now there’s  _two_ of them?”

The Orange Blur shrugs. “Machine wouldn't help, so I found a goody-two shoes version who would.” His voice sounds weird. After a second Tucker realizes why. He’s not talking super fast or babbling.

“Uh, because you _threatened me_ ,” snaps the Professor.

The Orange Blur shrugs again. “Hey, I _tried_  to just lie to you! Not my fault you figured it out.”

“You stole my device,” Machine says. His voice is cold. “I went to a lot of trouble to acquire that.”

“You weren’t using it.”

“At the moment! If you damaged it--”

“If he damaged it?!” the Professor squawks. Tucker can’t see his face, but he’s pretty sure the guy just lost all the color in his face. He knows, because he’s got the same sick feeling at the thought. “But--”

“It’s not damaged,” the Orange Blur says, sounding annoyed.

Tucker waves at them, since everyone’s apparently forgotten he exists. “Good, then you can send me and the Professor back to our universe. Seriously, this one sucks. The Trio are all assholes!”

Machine says, in a very different tone, “The Professor?”

“Uh, yes?” the Professor says.

There’s a short pause. Then Machine says slowly, “So…. Is the title just an exaggeration like I’m sure Doctor Incredible’s name is or do you actually have a PhD?”

“I have two.” The Professor sounds annoyed for a second, and then confused. “Wait, why?”

“Yeah, _Mister_ Machine,” the Orange Blur says. Tucker can hear the smirk in his voice. “How many do _you_ have?” When Machine takes a violent, sudden movement towards him, the Orange Blur laughs. He pulls out the same small device from before. It really doesn’t look like something that can split holes in realities, but when the Orange Blur presses a button, that’s exactly what it does. It opens to a similar room with a grubbier couch and a cat that hisses and spits at them in surprise. The Blur ignores the cat.

“Better get rid of these guys before you damage the device. Well, unless you want an extra Laserblade and a nerdier version of you running around.”

“I’m not a nerd,” the Professor huffs, then adds in a mutter, “But I seriously need a costume redesign. No wonder everybody thought I was evil when I first showed up.” Then he yelps as the Orange Blur grabs him by the arm and slings him through the gateway.

The cat growls and launches itself at the Professor.

While everyone is distracted watching the Professor try to calm down the furious cat, Tucker sidles over to In-and-Out. “So, uh, before your brother sends me back, any tips on being badass villains?”

“What kind of shit do you steal?”

Tucker smiles weakly. “Uh.”

“Wow,” In-and-Out says, drawing out the word. She half-pats, half-slaps his face hard enough that he winces. “Cute but dumb in every fucking universe. Start by stealing some shit.” She glares in the Orange Blur and Mister Machine’s direction. “And if you have your own Trio, don’t let either of them get a punk-ass bitch of a boyfriend who won’t help break you out of jail. Blur has the worst fucking taste.”

Machine turns towards them. “I told you, you didn’t help me, I wouldn’t help you.”

“Fuck you,” In-and-Out snaps as Tucker stares.

“Wait, what-- they’re--”

“We’re not boyfriends,” the Orange Blur snaps.

“Yeah, yeah, fuckbuddies with feelings,” In-and-Out says dismissively. “Whatever.”

“There are no _feelings_ ,” growls the Orange Blur.

Tucker waits for the follow-up, but there isn’t one, which means… Which means there is definitely some fucking going on. Tucker stares between the Orange Blur and Mister Machine. “Wait. _Wait._ You two are--”

It’s Machine who steps forward, grabs him with his cyborg hand, and silently throws him through the portal. Tucker crashes into the couch with a yelp. He looks up, trying to get himself upright, and says, “Hold on, I have so many more questions, like when did--”

The portal closes.

“Fuck!”

“Questions about what?” The Professor has apparently dealt with the cat by shoving it into another room and closing the door, judging by the furious, muffled yowling. Before Tucker can even start to figure out a response, still reeling over the bombshell dropped on his head, the Professor shakes his head and says sourly, “You know what, never mind. I probably don’t want to know.” Then he pauses and says in a very different voice, “Uh, so. How about we call a truce and agree never to mention this to anyone?”

Tucker blinks at him. “What? You don’t want to nerd out over the whole alternate realities thing?”

“Not when it means I have to explain how I know they exist, and how I visited another universe without telling my team and got kidnapped by a villain. Why were you even there?”

“...I wanted to steal some cool tech so I followed you. But the Trio there turned out to be total assholes and arrested me…. Okay, I see your point, but--”

“But nothing. None of this happened,” the Professor says firmly. “Now let’s leave before the owner comes home and we have to explain why a hero and a villain are breaking and entering.”

Tucker debates arguing, and then gives up. His shoulder hurts where he hit the wall of that cell, and he’s pretty sure Caboose gave him more bruises from shaking him around. Yeah, he doesn’t want to talk about that universe either. “Okay.”

He decides to swing by the lair on his way home. When he gets there, Caboose is on a bean bag chair he dragged in off the street, watching the History Channel. Tucker snorts. “Dude, you know that channel is bullshit, right? They’re always blaming aliens for everything.”

Caboose frowns. For a second Tucker gets tense, suddenly stupidly convinced that the Orange Blur screwed up and sent him and the Professor to the wrong reality, but then he realizes Caboose is frowning at the TV. “They do? That’s not very nice.”

“What are you doing here?” Church asks, coming into the room with a bowl of popcorn.

“To call you assholes out for ditching me,” Tucker says. “Today sucked ass.”

Church smirks. “Oh no, did we hurt your feelings? Not our fault you weren’t paying attention.”

“Yeah, well--” Tucker says hotly, and then stops, realizing he doesn’t want to explain his day to Caboose and Church either. He’d gone to another reality to grab tech and just managed to get himself almost trapped there forever. Plus he actually had to work with the Professor for a minute. What a shitty day. “Just shut up and don’t ditch me again.” He grabs the bowl out of Church’s hands.

“Why _did_ we leave early?” Caboose asks, blinking at them.

The amused smirk leaves Church’s face. He scowls. “The cops showed up. We don’t need that hassle.”

Tucker snorts. “We’re scared of cops now?” He regrets the question, because Church’s face does that weird complicated thing where he’s upset about something and trying to hide it. Tucker chews on a mouthful of popcorn, buying himself time.

There’s another reason he doesn’t want to tell them about the other universe. He doesn’t want to tell Church that he was a hero in another reality and really screwed up, and that it had made Tucker think about how screwed up Church was in this universe. He doesn’t know how to have that conversation. It's not like he can tell the guy to go to therapy.

He changes the topic. Tucker sits cross-legged on the ground next to Caboose’s stupid bean bag chair. “Caboose, change the channel. I’m not watching dumbass conspiracies about aliens.”

“If they’re going to be mean, I don’t want to watch them either,” Caboose says with a sniff. He switches to the cooking channel.

The ground is hard under Tucker’s ass. He sighs, remembering the comfortable couches the Orange Blur and In-and-Out had at their hideout. “Oh yeah. I was thinking. Why haven’t we ever tried to rob a bank?”


	13. Sweet and Sour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons and Grif discuss zombie apocalypse plans. Simmons fails to prove a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for looking this over, and to folks in chat for helping me with the zombie apocalypse discussion. Figured Simmons needed a slower chapter after all the intense plot of the last few. 
> 
> The cake mentioned in this chapter is this recipe [here](https://heatherchristo.com/2014/02/02/spicy-chocolate-cake-with-jalapeno-chocolate-fudge-frosting/).
> 
> Also, have some fun Church [art](https://cinaed.tumblr.com/post/186142796629/hurtz-whale-h-hey-im-really-really-really-into) for chapter seven!

“You don’t know how to cook, do you?”

Simmons, in the middle of carefully removing his lunch from the office microwave, almost drops the steaming plate. He turns and blinks at Grif, who has his arms folded against his chest and is leaning in the doorway of the company break room. “What? Of course I know how to cook.”

Grif smirks a little. He nods towards the plate. “Yeah, no you don’t. You bring takeout or eat out every day. You know it’s 2019, right? You can learn recipes on YouTube and stuff.”

Simmons rolls his eyes, both annoyed and embarrassed that Grif’s noticed. He actually likes cooking -- it’s cheaper in the long run and he likes following the recipes, but balancing a civilian job and his hero life has been harder than he anticipated. Most weeks, it’s easier to just order takeout and split it into multiple meals than try to cook and get interrupted by an emergency. He can’t exactly tell Grif that. Instead he sits down at the table and starts to stir his reheated chow mein with his fork. He mutters, “Big words from a guy whose diet seems to consist of snack food. When’s the last time you ate a vegetable?”

“I eat vegetables. I had carrot cake the other day,” Grif says.

“That doesn’t count!” Simmons protests, before he sees the slight smirk and realizes that Grif is joking. He huffs. “Very funny.”

Grif goes to the fridge and pulls a Hungry Man meal from the freezer. He waves it towards Simmons and says, “Even microwave dinners have vegetables.”

“Yeah, and a shitload of sodium,” Simmons says. He shakes his head. “You’re going to have a heart attack before you’re forty.”

Grif grins. He doesn’t look concerned. “Eh. Maybe.” He’s halfway through his lunch when he says, “So found any good restaurants?” When Simmons blinks at him, he stares back. “Food is food. Besides, I thought you were gonna turn out to be a health nut and you’re eating chow mein like a normal dude. Maybe your food recs won’t completely suck.”

Simmons tries not to scowl, though Grif’s remark hit a sensitive spot. He hasn’t been eating as healthy as he usually does. Maybe he should order only vegetarian meals for a few weeks, get back on track. Trying not to sound defensive, he says, “Oh, like _you_ have any taste.”

Apparently he’s hit a sore spot of his own, because Grif frowns. “Uh, yeah, I do.”

Simmons stares pointedly at the microwave dinner.

Grif rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I know good food.” He jabs his fork in Simmons’ direction. “Besides, you’ve been here for like a month. You don’t know anything about the city. I know all the holes-in-the-wall where there’s cheap, good food.”

“Holes-in-the-wall and cheap food,” Simmons repeats. He lets sarcasm drip off every syllable. “Sounds delicious.”

Grif’s eyes narrow. He taps his fork against the plastic container twice. His annoyed stare lasts for another second before he nods. “Okay, I’ll show you.”

Simmons stops being pleased with himself for managing to annoy Grif. Confusion replaces the self-satisfaction. “Show me what?”

“Show you the best dinner you’ve had since you moved here.”

Simmons stares at Grif, who seems completely serious. The words feel more like a challenge than an invitation, like Simmons has been dared to trust Grif’s dubious palate. If Simmons is being honest, he’s curious now. What does Grif eat besides junk food and microwave dinners? The intensity in Grif’s face is a little weird though, like he takes food more seriously than Simmons thought.

Simmons coughs. “Uh, okay. But if the pretzels at the bar we’ve gone to count as fancy food--”

Grif snorts. “They don’t.”

 

* * *

 

The restaurant Grif takes him to after work is a textbook example of a hole-in-the-wall. It’s one of those restaurants above a store. There’s only a single forgettable sign with its name and instructions to take the stairs inside to announce its presence. Simmons almost walks past until Grif stops.

“We’re here. Hope you like Thai.”

Simmons raises an eyebrow. “What are you going to do if I don’t?”

Grif grins. “Tell you that you haven’t had the right Thai. Come on.”

Simmons follows him, a little distracted by the way Grif has to duck to enter the building and how he turns partially sideways to get up the narrow stairs. It’s not that he doesn’t know Grif is a big guy, it’s just one thing to know and another thing to witness Grif squeezing himself into the booth the waitstaff chooses for them.

Simmons starts to look over the menu. Then he sets it down, sensing a chance to get revenge for Grif’s earlier carrot cake joke. “You said you’d show me the best dinner. Does that mean you’re going to order for both of us?”

Grif blinks at him. Then he rolls his eyes. “What is this, a date? The whole menu’s good, so figure it out yourself.”

“Thanks. Great dinner so far.” Simmons picks up the menu, pleased with the half-exasperated, half-amused look Grif shoots him. He remembers his earlier thought about eating healthier. He looks at the vegetarian options. “How are the portions here? Is a starter and a curry too much? Would I be carrying half of it home?”

Grif laughs. “You’re going to get a curry? Can your pasty white ass handle it?”

Simmons bristles. “Yeah, of course I can.” He’s mostly telling the truth. He likes spicy food, but he has to be careful about the heat level. He’s not about to admit that to Grif though, who looks like he doesn’t believe Simmons can handle pepperoncinis, much less a curry.

“Uh huh,” Grif says skeptically. When the server arrives, Grif says to her, “Whatever he says, give him something mild.”

“Shut up, Grif,” Simmons says. His voice goes a little high without meaning to. Both the server and Grif give him a look that brings heat to his face faster than any pepper would. He ducks his head behind the menu for a second, scowling. “I can handle medium spicy. I’ll get the veggie spring rolls and the red curry with tofu.”

“Your funeral,” Grif says. “I’ll get the chicken curry puffs and dim sum for starters, and then pad thai noodles with pork and sweet and sour stir-fry with shrimp.”

Simmons knows better, since he’s pretty much never seen Grif not snacking on something, but he asks anyway. “Half of that’s to go, right?” When Grif just looks at him like he thinks Simmons is trying to mess with him again, Simmons sighs. “Of course it isn’t. Seriously? Are the portions tiny or what?”

“Or what,” Grif says, grinning. “But I’m hungry and it’s good. You’ll see.” He snorts. “If you don’t burn your taste buds off.”

“I can handle spice,” Simmons insists.

Grif still looks skeptical. Then he takes a noisy swig of his drink and says, “Did you see that New Armonia gave El Mecánico and Ms. Dynamite a key to the city? Man, they have that city wrapped around their fingers. Next they’ll get a parade.”

Simmons blinks, briefly thrown by the topic change, and then nods. “Oh, yeah. I was surprised no villain interrupted the ceremony. But what do you mean they have the city wrapped around their fingers? They’ve saved it plenty of times! It makes sense that everyone’s grateful.”

Grif raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, and so have our heroes. Where’s their key?”

“I don’t think that’s in the budget,” Simmons says.

Grif laughs. “Yeah, probably not. Maybe if the Trio stops all the property damage….”

“Maybe,” Simmons says, though he doubts they’d get one even then. “My question is what does the Trio have against traffic lights?”

“No clue.” Grif shrugs and then leans forward. He gets a glint in his eyes. “So. Thoughts on El Mecánico and Ms. Dynamite’s powers?”

“Well, if they were villains, they’d definitely do more property damage than the Trio,” Simmons says, earning another grin. Then he considers the question more seriously. El Mecánico can work and control low-level technology like cars and motorcycles, which he generally uses to run over or pin villains. Ms. Dynamite can make whatever she touches explosive. Their combined powers have stopped a bunch of mid-level villains over the past few years, but the defeats have been accompanied by a lot of property damage. “They work well together and have saved New Armonia a lot, but I don’t think I’d want their powers. It seems like more blunt-force stuff, and I don’t, uh, I mean it’s probably hard to stop villains with those powers without seriously hurting or killing any of them.”

Grif makes a face. “Chill out. Though I don’t think El Mecánico and Ms. Dynamite would feel too sorry for the villains they smashed into the pavement. Guess that means you’d still want precog powers?”

“Hey, you asked,” Simmons says. “But yeah. I think precog powers would be useful.”

Grif twists his mouth a little. “I think they’d be a headache. Maybe you can see like a day from now some idiot is going to walk into traffic, but how detailed is your vision? Would you have to memorize the entire city so you could go ‘oh yeah, that dumbass is gonna die on the corner of 23th and Pepperwood’ and be able to save him? Nah. Give me invisible naps any day.”

“But-- oh, thanks,” Simmons says as the server places the starters in front of them. His stomach pinches him. Suddenly the leftover chow mein seems like a long time ago. He reaches for one of the spring rolls.

He’s just bitten into it, savoring the burst of flavors, when Grif reaches over and steals one of the spring rolls. Simmons starts to protest, half-chokes, and instead glares while Grif eats the stolen food in two quick bites.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grif says. As Simmons reaches for his water to help the spring roll down and clear his throat so he can gripe at Grif for being a thief, Grif uses his fork to roll a pastry puff and one of the dim sum onto Simmons’ place. “There, no bitching over one spring roll.”

“You could’ve asked,” Simmons says, but it’s a halfhearted protest. He finishes his first spring roll and tries the other two appetizers. The dim sum is great, but the pastry puff ends up being his favorite, the pastry warm and the chicken tender.

When the entrees come out, Grif wears an expectant look. Simmons is almost waiting for him to prop his chin in his hand and watch Simmons take that first bite of curry.

“I can handle spicy food,” Simmons growls. He takes a big bite. He mostly tastes the coconut milk with an underlying spice. The spice is hot, but bearable. He smiles smugly. “See? I’m fine. It’s actually sweet.”

Grif gives Simmons a huge, shit-eating grin.

“Shut up,” Simmons mutters, though Grif hasn’t said anything. He eats another spoonful. The second bite is as good as the first, though it feels like the curry stings Simmons’ mouth a little more. It’s fine. He takes another bite, focusing on the sweetness.

By the fifth bite, his lips are stinging, his throat burns with every swallow, and the back of his neck feels hot. By the eighth bite, he’s starting to sweat. Hopefully it’s not obvious, but judging by the way Grif is still watching him, looking more amused by the second, it probably is. He ignores Grif and takes another bite.

“You need some milk?”

“I’m fine,” Simmons says. His voice comes out as a croak. He starts to take a sip of water and ends up gulping down half the glass. It doesn’t help with the burning heat still lingering in his mouth.

“Dude, seriously. Milk will help.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Simmons snaps. He immediately regrets it. Even breathing hurts now, his entire mouth on fire. He can feel the sweat prickling under his shirt. He grimaces.

Grif goes from looking amused to looking amused with a hint of concern. He flags down a server, who takes one look at Simmons and brings him a glass of milk.

The redness in his face is mostly from the chili, from it’s a bit from embarrassment too. He really didn’t want to prove Grif right. He drinks the milk quickly, sighing in relief as it soothes most of the burn.

When he finishes the milk, Grif tosses a balled up napkin at him. “If that’s not enough, I can call the server back, get you a towel instead,” he suggests, beginning to smirk again.

Simmons scowls but uses the napkin to wipe the sweat from his face and the back of his neck.

Grif switches the bowl of curry with his sweet and sour stir-fry. His shit-eating grin comes back. “On second thought, maybe we shouldn’t switch meals. I don’t know if you can handle bell peppers right now. You could order something else.”

Simmons glares. “Fuck you,” he says, his voice still hoarse. He starts to reach for his chopsticks, then considers the likelihood that Grif will mock him for using them wrong, and picks up his fork instead. He tries the stir-fry cautiously, and then relaxes at the tangy pineapple sauce and the lack of a burn.

“Didn’t burn your tastebuds off?” Grif asks, still grinning. He laughs when Simmons gives him the middle finger. Then he takes a huge bite of the curry. He’s not even starting to sweat at all, the asshole.

It’s definitely time for a topic change. “I was thinking about your zombie apocalypse plan.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

Simmons waves his fork. “You’re putting all your eggs in one basket with Alaska. You need to think about someplace tropical as a backup.”

Grif frowns at him. “Uh, not that I wouldn’t like to hide out someplace warm, but zombies freeze during the winter. Some of them might thaw in the spring, thanks global fucking warming, but that still gives me time to fortify. It’s a perfect plan.”

“Only if we’re talking about zombies caused by a virus. What about some empowered person accidentally raising an army of undead? They won’t care about the cold. You’d probably want to get somewhere south, like to the tropics, where they’ll be affected by the heat.”

Grif shakes his head. “Okay, sure, if an army of undead rise up, South America works. But one empowered dude is not gonna make an army that matters. Pretty sure a couple of superheroes working together could take the zombies out. Nah. I’ll stick to Alaska. Virus zombies are way more likely.” Then he frowns. “Okay, there’s rabies zombies too. They’d probably be a bigger problem than the undead.”

“Exactly! They’d be a waiting game. Who knows how long it would take the rabies virus to kill its host? That one you’d just want to get somewhere isolated, like mountains or an island or--”

“You forgot one thing,” Grif says, mock-grave.

Simmons blinks at him, momentarily distracted from the problem of rabies zombies. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“Experiment zombies. We’re all screwed if some mad scientist makes some zombies in their lab and they get loose. We won’t know what hit us.”

“It’d be harder to plan for, yeah, but we’re not completely screwed--”

The ensuing argument gets them through the rest of dinner until the server asks how they want the check.

“I’ll pay it,” Simmons says instinctively. He flushes at Grif’s surprise. “I mean, uh.” He wants to treat Grif, who ate two starters and two entrees (and one spring roll) and then still looked wistfully at the dessert menu. If this is how much Grif eats at dinner, he’s probably spending most of his paycheck on food. Simmons thinks guiltily of his fortune, and the paycheck he doesn’t technically need. “I’ll pay it,” he repeats more firmly.

Grif squints at him, the surprise giving way to an unreadable look. “Nah, my treat,” he says after a few seconds, pulling out his wallet. He grins slightly. “Save your spare cash for zombie apocalypse supplies.”

Simmons swallows down a laugh. “But no, I should--”

“I could just split the bill,” their server says. When Simmons looks at her, she seems amused.

“Or that,” Simmons agrees sheepishly.

When the server disappears to get their checks, Grif shoots a smug look at Simmons’ empty plate. He doesn’t say anything, but he clearly thinks he’s proven his point and shown Simmons the best dinner.

Simmons can’t really argue with him. The sweet and sour shrimp was amazing, and Simmons had been half-tempted to drink the remaining pineapple juice. He still feels like knocking that smug look off Grif’s face. He leans back, making a show of looking thoughtful. “That was a pretty good dinner. Besides the curry incident.”

“Hey, that was on you,” Grif says. “There was plenty of non-spicy shit on the menu.”

“You should’ve considered my pasty white ass when you chose the restaurant. And I asked for food recommendations, remember?”

Grif snorts. “Come on, dude, you loved that shrimp.”

Simmons blinks at him. He’s not the best actor, but he clings to his fake thoughtful expression, throwing some surprise in there for good measure. “Did I?”

Grif’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, you did.”

Simmons shrugs. “The stir-fry was good, but I still don't know if it was the _best_ restaurant. I had some Lebanese that pretty good the other week--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Grif says, but he starts to laugh. “Fine, I’ll show you my favorite poke place next time. They’ve got some non-spicy bowls you can handle.”

“I can handle some spice,” Simmons protests. Then the ‘next time’ registers. He blinks, and then hides his surprised smile behind his water, realizing too late that the glass is empty. He tries to sound casual. “Sounds good. But I can handle something mild.”

Grif looks skeptical again.

“I can!” The words come out as a squawk, just in time for the server to show up with their checks. She gives him one of those bland smiles people in the service industry use that always makes Simmons feel judged. He tries not to blush again.

“Come on,” Grif says. “Let’s pay, and then get you some ice cream. It'll taste better than the milk. There's like a two dollar place around the corner.”

Simmons sighs. “You’re never going to let me live the curry thing down, are you?”

Grif’s grin is answer enough.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Simmons sets a cake carrier next to Grif’s computer and smiles smugly. “Here,” he says. He imagined Grif’s face the entire time he was baking, how he’d look when he’s forced to admit that Simmons know how to cook and handle spicy food. “I hope you like jalapeno.”

“Uh, what?” Grif says, blinking.

Simmons was expecting him to look surprised, but not for Grif to start to open the cake carrier, get a whiff of rich dark chocolate, and then stare at Simmons like he’s grown a second head or started babbling in tongues. Some of his smugness fades, replaced by uncertainty. He resists the urge to reach for the cake carrier, like he can take it back. “You said I didn’t know how to cook,” he explained. “Baking isn’t exactly cooking, but it’s all basic chemistry and following directions. It’s not _rocket science_. So I made a cake with jalapeno chocolate fudge frosting, and, um--”

Grif keeps staring.

Simmons slows down until he's silent, the words drying up in his mouth. He hesitates. He plays his words over in his head. They seemed good in the privacy of his apartment, but now it actually sounds a little weird, baking a cake for another guy just to prove a point. An embarrassed warmth creeps into his cheeks.

When he glances towards Donut, he wishes he hadn’t. The other man is staring between the cake carrier, Grif, and Simmons, his eyes wide and a delighted smile spreading across his face.

Simmons hasn’t even noticed DuFresne at Sarge’s desk. He startles a little as the man clears his throat and smiles. “Did Grif tell you it was his birthday? Because that’s sweet, but he was lying. His birthday isn’t for a few months.”

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to tell other people personal shit like my birthday, DuFresne,” Grif says, but it sounds distant. He reaches for the cover again. This time he gets the whole thing off. The smell of chocolate cake permeates the room.

“No, he didn’t, I-- uh.” Simmons tries to figure out a way to say that he baked Grif a cake to win an argument without sounding like a weirdo. “I, um.”

Donut cooes, “That’s so nice. You made Grif a cake!”

“It’s not nice!” Simmons snaps. embarrassed. He forgets his earlier resolution not to give the real explanation. “I was trying to win an argument!”

At this, Grif blinks once, twice, and then grins a familiar grin. “You baked me a cake, dude. Pretty sure I still win the argument.” He holds out a hand and snaps his fingers. “Where’s the knife and plate? I mean, I’ll dig into this thing with my bare hands, don’t think I won’t, but--”

Simmons recognizes the glint in Grif’s eyes. He’s serious. “Grif, if you do, I swear I’m gonna--”

Donut bounds to his feet. “There are some plates in the break room!”

“Plate, not plates,” Grif says. He curls a protective arm around the cake carrier. He glares at the group. “It’s my cake. I’m not sharing.”

“Of course you won’t,” Sarge says with a snort.

“I don’t suppose you used a vegan recipe?” DuFresene asks Simmons hopefully. He sighs in disappointment when Simmons shakes his head. “Oh well. It does smell wonderful!”

When Donut comes back, plates and knife in hand, Tucker, Church, and Caboose trail behind him like curious ducklings.

“No!” Grif and Sarge snap at the same time.

Amusement banishes any lingering embarrassment as Simmons watches Grif and Sarge glare at each other, both looking betrayed by the universe that they might actually agree on something.

“We’re not feeding the enemy!” Sarge snaps.

“You’re going to have cake and not share?” Caboose asks, giving Sarge a disappointed look that Sarge clearly tries to resist before succumbing to it with a grumbled, “Well, I suppose if it means less cake for Grif, sacrifices must be made…”

“Fuck you,” Grif says.

Simmons says, “The cake can serve twelve.” He ignores the overwhelming relief that everyone is too focused on the prospect of cake to really think too hard about Simmons baking it for Grif. Maybe everyone will just forget why the cake is here….

That hope is squelched when Grif groans. “Et tu, Simmons? You’re gonna bake me cake and then make me share? This is bullshit.” Despite the complaining, he doesn’t fight Donut when Donut tugs the carrier away from him and begins slicing the cake.

Simmons sidles over to Grif. He tries to not to watch too intently as Grif gets the first slice and immediately puts a forkful into his mouth. He’s definitely not waiting for any reaction, which is good, because other than Grif’s eyebrows raising briefly, he doesn’t get one. Instead Grif swallows and says, “Jalapeno fudge frosting, huh.”

“Yeah. See? I can bake and make spicy food,” Simmons says. He tries to summon that earlier smugness, but it doesn’t last long because the next words out of Grif’s mouth are, “Make them, not eat them.”

Simmons blinks. “What?”

Grif gestures at Donut passing out plates to everyone else. “Eat a slice, Simmons.”

Simmons grimaces, remembering the way he’d broken out into a sweat taste-testing the frosting and the batter. He avoids Grif's knowing gaze. “Don’t you want extra slices?”

Grif grins at him. “You totally can’t eat it, you baby.”

“Shut up.”

Grif takes another bite of the cake. He swallows and says, with a magnanimous tone at odds by the way chocolate is smearing his lips, “I guess I’ll save you from being embarrassed and just eat your share.”

“Thanks,” Simmons says sarcastically.

“Hey, I--” Grif’s grin drops off his face. His eyes narrow. “Tucker, are you trying to take two slices?”

Tucker tries to hide the second plate behind his back before he shrugs. “Saving some for Junior.”

“It’s my cake, asshole! And besides, it's got jalapenos. Pretty sure that's child abuse.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, dude. My kid can take it.”

Grif moves to stand up, like he’s going to grab the plate out of Tucker’s hands.

Tucker bolts for the open door while Church snickers. He disappears into the hallway, ignoring Grif’s call of, “Damn it, Tucker, this cake is too good to waste on your kid!”

It’s sort of a compliment. Despite his earlier embarrassment and despite the fact that he hasn’t exactly won the argument like he thought he would, Simmons still feels a twinge of self-satisfaction.

“Make a cake for me next,” Church says.

“Don’t make cake for the enemy!” Sarge snaps.

DuFresne brightens. “Oh, I know a few amazing vegan cake recipes if you're taking suggestions.”

“You’re ruining it,” Grif grumbles.

Caboose beams at Simmons. “I love all kinds of cakes!”

“Uh,” Simmons says. He stares around at everyone’s expectant faces. “I’m not really taking requests….”


	14. Countdown at the Stadium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Stupendous tries to defuse a volatile situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First day of vacation so I can actually write some fic again! And now it's time for plot and drama to really kick off! 
> 
> Thanks go out to chat for helping me with some of the plotting of this chapter and to Aryashi for looking it over.

The bomb alerts come in almost simultaneously, Magic Mouth’s urgent _bomb threat at the Smith Foundation, need help ASAP_ flashing in Simmons’ cyborg view a few seconds before the Channel Seven news alert replaces it.

Simmons almost runs his half-full cart of groceries into a display case in his surprised alarm. A bomb threat at the Smith Foundation? The nonprofit studies empowered abilities and offers assistance to people whose powers cause harm to themselves or others. He _knew_ that people should’ve been paying more attention to that politician and his anti-empowered tirades. Someone clearly agrees with the man and has decided to take matters into their own hands.

Simmons offers a quick, “Sorry!” to the nearby employee restocking orange juice before he abandons the cart and bolts. At least he’s only four blocks away from the foundation. If he’d been at work, it would’ve taken him too long to get there.

There’s no small talk from Detective York today, just a quick nod and a wry, “Your Ph.D. teach you anything about bombs?”

“No,” Simmons says with a frustrated grimace behind his mask. It’s not something he’s even thought to research. The Trio doesn’t use bombs. He glances around, trying to orient himself.

Simmons hasn’t been inside the foundation, but the building seems designed by an architect obsessed with Frank Gehry or perhaps just overwhelmed by the prospect of having all variety of empowered abilities tested within its walls. The first two stories seem normal enough, more like an office building with gray steel and gleaming, darkened windows, but then there’s something akin to an indoor stadium perched on top.

The police are herding people out of the foundation, mostly scientists and volunteers, but Simmons spies a handful of teenagers who were probably there for power experimentation. At least it’s a Saturday, which means there’s likely fewer people inside the foundation and the surrounding businesses. On the downside, it’s a fine April afternoon, which means there are families milling around. Besides the people evacuating the Smith Foundation, the rest of the civilians milling around seem to be there to either watch the show or were caught in the middle of walking the path along the bay.

Simmons spies Magic Mouth, In-and-Out, and the Orange Blur talking to Detective Washington. Judging by the detective’s gestures, they’re figuring out how to evacuate the entire block as quickly as possible. At least the foundation faces the bay, so there are less buildings around than there might have been. “The city has a bomb squad, right?”

A new voice, slightly staticky, snarls, “Yeah, three whole people, and we’re on the other side of the city with a goddamn marathon between us. You can complain to Doyle about his stupid fucking budget after we figure this shit out.”

York holds up his phone and turns it so that the screen is facing Simmons. Now Simmons can see a grainy video, where a blond woman wears a scowl that rivals Detective McAllister’s at its angriest. She glares at Simmons and asks, sarcasm souring each word, “So, can your stupendous powers find the bomb?”

“South, play nice,” York says, though judging by his tone, he’s expecting the sneer the suggestion earns him. “But yeah, we need to find the bomb fast.”

The Orange Blur is suddenly beside them. “Just get me a way through all the locked doors, York, and I can find the bomb. Can’t disarm it though, not when my only reference is movies. Pretty sure those aren’t accurate, I mean, it’s Hollywood so-- uh, I can _probably_ outrun an explosion but who wants to fucking test that out? Not me. So. I can find the bomb, but someone else needs to take it from there.”

“I can try, if Officer--” Halfway through volunteering, Simmons realizes that he doesn’t know the bomb expert’s actual name. Also that he’s volunteering to disarm a _bomb._ His stomach begins twisting itself into terrified knots. “If Officer, uh, South, will talk me through it.”

“Guess I’ll have to,” South says sourly.

A squad car pulls up with a screech of tires and a harried woman in sweatpants, creased shirt, and half-dried hair scrambles out. York waves her over. “That’s the foundation president. Blur, she’s got an all-access key--”

“This one?” Blur says, twirling something small and white between his fingers. “I’m on it.” He disappears with a rush of sound.

Washington clears his throat as Sergeant Blood and Doctor Pacifist emerge from the crowd from opposite directions and duck under police tape. “We’re all hands on deck with the evac. We want to clear the whole block, since we don’t know how strong the bomb is--”

“Or if there’s a bomb at all,” York says with a grim smile. “But better safe than sorry. And keep an eye out for anyone weird.”

“Bombers like to watch,” South adds.

“He’s not in the crowd,” Sergeant Blood says with absolute certainty.

“Uh huh, old man,” In-and-Out says with a roll of her eyes.

Sergeant Blood bristles. “I’m not old, and I’m right! When you’ve been in war, you hone your instincts or you die! And my instincts tell me the bastard ain’t here.” He adjusts his shotgun, propped against his shoulder and adds, “Wish he was. Would love to give him a shotgun blast to the face.”

“By which he means he’d be glad to help in a lawful arrest,” Doctor Pacifist interjects hastily, with a nervous laugh and glance between York and Washington, who both look unconvinced.

“Keep an eye out, just in case,” Washington says, ignoring Sergeant Blood’s annoyed huff. “It’s mostly just idiots who think it might be cool to watch a building explode.”

“Obviously they haven’t heard the term blast radius,” Simmons mutters. He tries to fight against his nerves, hastily turning to York. “Let me use your phone? I can connect Officer South directly the video feed of my eye, so she can see the bomb once Blur finds it.”

“That’s handy,” York says, handing his phone over.

“There’s no police with any bomb squad experience here?” Magic Mouth asks. “No offense to the Professor, but cyborg strength--”

“And being a nerd,” In-and-Out interjects.

“--might not stop the bomb.”

Magic Mouth sounds concerned. Simmons can’t decide if he’s happy that Magic Mouth is worried about him, and annoyed that Magic Mouth doesn’t think he can do it. He says, “Between Officer South's help and my tech powers, I should be okay--”

“Tech powers?”

The echo comes from several mouths at once.

Simmons blinks. “Yes?” He’s met by a collection of blank stares. “You guys know about them!” Then he thinks about it. He’s used his cyborg strength, and mentioned his cyborg eye, but when has he actually used his tech powers as a hero? Probably just breaking alternate In-and-Out from jail in the mirrorverse, and no one knows about that. He smiles awkwardly behind his mask. “Uh, yeah. Maybe I didn’t mention that. I have tech powers?”

“What the fuck, dude,” In-and-Out says. “How is this the first we’re hearing about this?”

Heat floods Simmons’ face. “I thought I’d mentioned them! Just, uh, they sort of help me work with high-level tech, makes it easier for me to fix and improve stuff, and maybe hopefully deal with the bomb? Maybe.” Before they can question him further, he activates the audio in his suit. “Officer South, I hooked you into my eye feed and myself into your video audio. Can you say something to confirm?”

South’s response is a low, fervent, “I fucking hate empowered shit.”

Simmons fumbles with York’s phone and hands it back. “Uh. Heard you loud and clear.”

“Found it,” the Orange Blur says. “In the stadium, on a support beam. Just waiting to wham and bam and take out the whole fucking thing. Like we already knew this dude was a total dick, but what a dick. You’re gonna just blow up some kids learning about their powers? Fuck him. I hope his next bomb blows up in his face.” He taps the access key against his open palm, a smaller blur of movement as he offers, “I could try to move it myself, get it somewhere--”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” South howls from the phone, loud enough that the words are almost lost in a furious crackling. Her voice is even louder in Simmons’ ear and he winces. “First rule of bomb squad is don’t fucking move a bomb. Leave it alone and let me and the Professor handle it.”

“Jesus, fine. I was just asking,” the Orange Blur says. He’s still tapping the access key against his palm. “You ready, Professor?”

“I guess,” Simmons says, swallowing down a nervous laugh. The next second, he learns that the bridal carry is this Orange Blur’s go-to as well, as the Orange Blur scoops him up and runs. He wraps his arms instinctively around the Orange Blur’s neck, wondering even as he does so what exactly both Blurs has against the fireman’s carry. Then he considers being slung across the Blur’s shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Honestly, he’s not sure which position is more embarrassing.

The Orange Blur zips them up to the stadium, halting only to swipe the passkey at doors. Then he sets Simmons down. “It’s right under there. Can’t miss it, which is sort of weird, right? Or maybe he just wants to scare people, not kill them. If he didn’t, he probably wouldn’t have put it on a support beam, though. Whatever. Uh, I should go down, drag some dumbass tourists by their ears somewhere safe, but I can stick around--”

Simmons wants him to stay. He really doesn’t want to have only South’s unfriendly voice in his ear as he tries to disarm the bomb. But he knows the Orange Blur is needed for the evacuation, so he forces a smile behind his mask and says, “Go help with the evacuation.”

The Orange Blur is there one second and gone the next.

“Can I look at the fucking bomb now? Or do you want to stand around and see how long it takes to blow up?” South snaps.

“Uh, right,” says Simmons. The words stick in his dry throat. He focuses his cyborg eye on the bomb, which is like something out of a bad action movie. It’s anchored to the support beam. When Simmons runs calculations, it’s obvious that destroying that beam will take out the stadium, and with the stadium, the other two floors will go too. Even as he runs the statistics, though, he’s distracted by the red, glowing countdown that tells him they have nine minutes and counting to disarm the bomb before it explodes. The thought makes him queasy.

“You carry clippers or can your cyborg fingers cut shit? Otherwise we have a fucking problem.”

“I, uh, have some clippers,” Simmons assures South, fumbling with the pouch at his side where he keeps his cell phone and some tools. He almost drops the clippers at the sudden pop of displaced air.

He looks towards In-and-Out in surprise.

She waves at him. “Don’t tell Blur. He won’t want me up here. But hey, someone’s gotta get you out of here if something goes wrong with the bomb, right?” She waits a beat and adds, “Besides, I was about to slap some dumbasses out there. Fucking tourists.”

Simmons laughs weakly. “Um. Okay. Thanks.” He turns back towards the bomb as South hisses impatiently in his ear. All his nerves jump again, though the fact that In-and-Out is with him makes things a little less terrifying. “Uh, just tell me what to do, officer.”

South starts to give him instructions on how to disarm the bomb. He ignores the accompanying profanity and focuses on her orders. He holds his breath as he carefully pries off the paneling. It seems to take forever, though he knows realistically it doesn’t take long at all. The entire time he’s ignoring the twinge of nausea and the gathering tension in his shoulders. He’s nervous. Of course he’s nervous, he’s defusing a bomb, but as long as he keeps his hands steady and follows South’s directions, everything will be fine.

When he lifts the panel away, there’s a mess of wires, half-illuminated by the red glow of the dwindling numbers.

“Okay, see the green wire on your right? Cut that one.”

“This one?” Simmons asks, pointing at the wire. He wills his hands and voice not to shake.

“Are you fucking colorblind? Yeah, that one.”

“Excuse me for wanting to double-check!” Simmons snaps defensively. South snorts in his ear, and from the corner of his eye he can see In-and-Out watching. He flushes as he puts the clippers to the green wire.

He doesn’t cut it. Instead he almost drops the clippers, his fingers suddenly tingling like his entire hand’s gone to sleep. The particular feeling doesn’t spread. Instead there’s a pressure in the back of his head and a tightness to his throat that makes him swallow hastily so that he doesn’t gag. He swears, a half-choked sound of frustration. He switches the clippers to his cyborg hand and shakes out his numb one.

South’s voice is distant but sharp. “C’mon, don’t pussy out on me.”

“Professor?”

Simmons grimaces at the confusion in In-and-Out’s voice. All too conscious of South in his ear, he mutters, “My powers like to fix things, not break them. Just give me a second.” He almost misses the uncomfortable itch between his shoulder-blades.

“Suck it up,” South snaps.

Simmons gives his hand another shake. Then, quickly, he snips the green wire.

He pulls the clippers back a second before his powers protest. The familiar itch flares in his back like he summoned it with his earlier thought, but there’s a new sensation along with it. A twisting agony in his chest cuts through him like a knife. He sucks in a breath, and the pain in his chest fades to a dull ache. The itching lingers and intensifies.

 _Fix it,_ his powers insist. Simmons bites back a hysterical laugh as he rubs a quick hand across his chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he mumbles. He shouldn’t be surprised that his powers don’t see technology as good or bad, just working or broken, but this is probably the worst time to learn it.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” South hisses. “What the fuck--”

Simmons winces. “No, not you, my powers-- never mind. What should I do next?”

“Stop acting like a freak and cut the yellow wire on your top right. Top, not bottom, unless you wanna go boom.”

“I definitely don’t,” Simmons says weakly. He cuts the top yellow wire. This time he’s braced for the discomfort. He grits his teeth as his powers protest louder, a steady thrum of _fix it_ in the back of his head.

South says, loud enough to cut through the noise, “Okay, almost fucking done. See that small wire, purple, attached to the clock? Cut that one.”

He holds his breath as he does.

The glowing red numbers stop counting down, freezing at 4:23.

The relief makes it easy for him to ignore the continuing protest from his powers. “That’s a good sign, right?”

He can hear South sigh, though her voice doesn’t show her relief as she says flatly, “Yeah, it means you didn’t fuck up. You get a gold star. Now just leave it the fuck alone until I--”

The clock’s numbers flicker and then drop to 3:23.

“Uh,” In-and-Out says. “It’s not supposed to do that, right?”

Simmons can barely hear her over South cursing in his ear. “A fucking fail-safe, are you fucking-- I’m gonna kill this guy-- fuck!” The last profanity is yelled as the 3:23 drops to 2:23. “Get the fuck out of there!”

Simmons’ fingers twitch in protest, because his powers finally want to be useful and fix this problem. There’s no time, though, as the clock loses another minute. He turns towards In-and-Out. “We have to go!”

In-and-Out doesn’t grab him. Instead she shoulders past him. “Shit! The evac’s not done.” She tears the bomb off its anchor with a screech of metal. She spares one second to meet Simmons’ eyes, her gaze rueful above her mask. “Tell Blur sorry if this doesn’t work.”

Then she and the bomb are gone.

Simmons grabs for her a half-second too late. “Fuck!” he shrieks. His powers’ backlash felt nothing like the panic that grips him now. His entire body goes cold. South’s saying something, but he can’t hear her over the buzzing in his ears. How much time does In-and-Out have before the bomb explodes?

He runs. There’s fortified glass covering the stadium. He gets to the top of the bleachers and peers out through the glass, searching frantically.

In-and-Out reappears about three hundred feet away, high above the bay. His cyborg eye instinctively starts to zoom in. He watches her open her arms and drop the bomb, sees it fall a second before a sudden white light shorts out his eye. He flinches back, cupping his cyborg eye even as he squints with his watery, useless one, trying to see if In-and-Out escaped the explosion. His vision is too blurry. He can’t see anything.

He blinks hard, and the blurriness resolves into the sight of In-and-Out hitting the water with a splash he’s too far away to hear. A second later there’s a familiar blur and another splash.

Simmons doesn’t stay at the glass to see if they re-emerge. He bolts for the stadium exit.

“I lost the feed. Did she make it?” South asks.

Simmons shakes his head. “I don’t-- she hit the water-- fuck!” The stadium exit door is locked. Of course it is. That’s why the Orange Blur had the pass key.

At the thought of the Orange Blur, guilt strangles him. The Blur just watched his sister fall from the sky, maybe watched her die. He’s never going to forgive Simmons, fuck, Simmons will never forgive himself if she’s hurt, if she’s--

Simmons tears the stupid door off its hinges and keeps running.

He bursts into the sunlight, scanning the area. He’s hit by momentary gratitude for the Blur’s distinctive hoodie. Even darkened by water, the orange shade draws his eye. The emotion goes quickly, that agonizing guilt and fear returning. His stomach clenches. For a second he hesitates, not wanting to know, and then he shoulders his way through the crowd.

“Keep her neck braced,” Doctor Pacifist says, sounding worried.

“Hear that? Don’t move, dumbass,” the Blur says, low and rough, and Simmons almost collapses with relief as he squeezes between Detective York and a stranger to see In-and-Out on a stretcher, the Blur leaning over her, his hand on her shoulder.

She, the Blur, and surprisingly Doctor Pacifist are soaked to the skin, their costumes clinging to them, but Simmons barely notices, his eyes fixed on In-and-Out’s face. Her brown skin has a gray tinge to it, and her eyes seem a little unfocused, but she’s alive and awake enough to mumble, “I can feel my fingers and toes, don’t worry. Didn't break my neck.”

“Shut up,” the Blur says. “Shut up, you’re so fucking dumb, did you think you were in a goddamn action movie? I know that bomb was like a cliché piece of shit, red countdown bullshit and all, but this is real life, dumbass, you could’ve-- I bet you when we find that dickweasel, he’ll have like a million stupid action movies. Probably gets a hard-on for Die Hard or Schwarznegger or Vin Diesel or Jackie Chan-- wait, no, Jackie Chan is badass. No way he's cool enough to like Jackie Chan--”

“Babbling,” In-and-Out says.

The Orange Blur stops. 

“She’s going to be okay,” Doctor Pacifist says. He tries to put a reassuring hand on the Blur’s shoulder, and doesn’t look surprised when the Blur shoves his hand away and growls at him.

Simmons opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out except a long, shaky sigh. What would he even say? Apologize that he hadn’t pushed through his powers’ backlash fast enough? Maybe if he had, they would have had enough time to stop the fail-safe. The adrenaline rush is ebbing now that there are no bombs to fail to disarm or doors to destroy. He wobbles on his feet as he takes another breath, his shoulder twinging from tearing through doors. He's going to have make a generous and anonymous donation to the foundation to apologize.

In-and-Out glances towards him, carefully not moving her head. “Hey, Professor. Sorry for ditching you.”

Simmons chokes on a startled, half-hysterical laugh. He swallows against it and tries to say something, because now everyone’s looking at him, including the Orange Blur, who probably hates him for not keeping In-and-Out safe. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I-- I’m sorry, I should’ve-- if we’d have more time--” His voice shakes, and he can feel the threatening crack building in his throat. He clamps his mouth shut.

Doctor Pacifist and Magic Mouth both frown in his direction, but it’s Sergeant Blood who steps between him and the stretcher, waving at In-and-Out and the Orange Blur. “Go get some rest,” he orders gruffly.

Doctor Pacifist coughs. “Um, you mean, go get checked out at the hospital, right?”

Sergeant Blood’s blank expression says he didn’t mean that at all, but he shrugs. “If that’ll calm everyone down, sure, go to the hospital.” He gives the Orange Blur a quick nod, then turns towards Simmons. In a lower voice, but no less gruffly, he says, “She’ll be fine. Your teammates get hurt sometimes, that's the gig.”

“But--”

“Just don’t think about it! Look at me, I’ve been through three wars, and do I think about it? No! Shut those memories in a box and throw it away, and you’ll be fine! If you’re gonna think about anything, think about this as a victory. No civilians got hurt and In-and-Out didn’t have to sacrifice herself in a blaze of glory. Only downside is that we didn’t catch the bastard and give him a taste of his own medicine.”

Magic Mouth frowns. “Sergeant Blood, that's not a good way to handle trauma, you should really-- wait, three wars?”

Sergeant Blood holds up his hand. He counts off the wars with his fingers. “World War II. Aliens. And now I’m part of the last, best defense in Blood Gulch. We’re waging a war against villains, or haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Right, makes sense,” Simmons agrees weakly when Sergeant Blood gives them an expectant look. He pauses, and then realizes he’s waiting for the Orange Blur to snort and call Sergeant Blood crazy. There's only silence. He peers around Sergeant Blood and realizes they’re gone. That makes sense. They'll want to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. 

“Right,” South says, and then snickers a little when he jumps. She’s been quiet for so long that he’d forgotten she was still watching. “Reconnect me with York. His phone dropped the call when the bomb went off. Hey, does your cyborg eye record shit? I want video of the bomb and that fucking fail-safe bullshit.”

“Oh, uh, yes, it does.” Simmons leaps at the opportunity to be useful after his screw-up.

It’s enough to distract him until he gets back to his apartment and realizes that the Orange Blur hasn’t messaged anyone with an update on In-and-Out’s condition. Simmons fiddles with his phone, frowning at TeamApp. He wavers between his desperate need to know if she’s okay and his miserable conviction that the Blur must be furious with him.

Finally, after pacing for a while, he texts the Orange Blur privately.

_Is In-and-Out okay? What did the doctors say?_

There’s no immediate answer, and Simmons’ stomach roils.

When his phone chimes, he almost drops it.

 **The Orange Blur:** _doctor says concussion, so take her off the group alert for a week, i don’t care if there’s another bomb or some end of the world shit, she needs to rest_

“Thank fuck,” Simmons whispers in the privacy of his apartment. Then he realizes the Orange Blur will expect a response and falls back into a smaller panic. What should he say? Should he apologize again for putting In-and-Out in harm’s way? He goes back to pacing around for a while, before he painstakingly types: _I’ll let everyone know and take her off the group alert. I hope she feels better soon. Tell her to rest up!_

He winces as soon as he hits send. Tell her to rest up? He hopes it doesn’t come across as flippant, like he’s making light of In-and-Out almost dying. He waits for another long minute, but all he gets back in a single letter response.

_k_

Simmons blinks. What does that mean? Is the Orange Blur too angry at him to say anything else? Or maybe he’s just too distracted by In-and-Out’s injuries. At the thought, guilt tightens his chest.

He pulls up the video of his failed attempt at disarming the bomb. After a second’s consideration of how little he knows about bombs, he hacks a few government sites and pulls up blueprints and training manuals on disarming bombs. He needs to learn more. The bomber’s still out there. At least Simmons can apologize to In-and-Out by figuring out how to counteract the fail-safe if the guy strikes again.

The more he watches and researches, though, the more his powers turn away from the problem of the fail-safe and notice flaws in the various blueprints. He grits his teeth, frustrated, and snaps, “I don’t want to make better bombs!”

Simmons feels like an idiot, arguing with his own powers. He pauses the video and squeezes his eyes. He remembers how easy it had been to break into that prison and help the mirrorverse version of In-and-Out escape. Was this how it started for his alternate self, realizing how easily his powers could be used to hurt people and for personal gain?

Maybe his father was right. At the very least, he feels like the failure and disappointment his father has always believed he was.


	15. A Simple Fix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons gets his powers when he's fifteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a flashback! Sorry, Simmons' family is the worst, but I promise a more lighthearted chapter for the next update. 
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for helping me, as always, and to Akisawana and other Discord folks for helping me with the technology portions of this chapter.

Simmons knows the warning signs for a bad family dinner. Knows them by heart. When he sees his mom already polishing off a wine glass, he knows things will be tense.

Then his father asks, “How was your day?” and Simmons is filled with sinking dread.

He thinks frantically, trying to figure out what he’s done to earn that question and the inevitable reprimand that always follows. He comes up blank. Still, his father expects an answer, and even his mom is looking at him over the rim of her glass.

“It was fine, sir?” Despite his efforts, his voice rises a little and turns it into a question of his own.

“Fine?” His father dislikes strong displays of emotion, but the faint curl of his lips as he repeats the word might as well have been a scowl. “For what I’m paying for that school, I’d hope for something more enthusiastic than _fine_.”

Simmons winces. “I didn’t mean-- I, uh, misspoke. It was uneventful.”

“I suppose most days are uneventful when you can’t be bothered to pay attention to your peers. I’m told you haven’t made a single friend this semester, or even a casual acquaintance.” His father shakes his head and begins to cut into his steak. For a second Simmons lets himself hope that his father is already finished with him, but then his father adds, “Like mother, like son. Neither of you know how to ingratiate yourself with your peers and be useful.”

His mom smiles coldly over her second glass. “It would help if they were better company.”

Simmons is both grateful and unhappy when his father turns his full attention on his mom. They begin to snipe at each other in low voices, too well-bred to shout. As his mom punctuates her sentences with slow, half-mocking sips of her wine and his father wears that faint, terrible frown, Simmons learns that his mom missed a planned lunch with the wife of a local councilman.

Simmons should eat while they’re distracted, but his nerves are shot. He tries to gauge the steadiness of his hands and how absorbed his parents are in their disagreement. He hates that sitting at this table turns him so clumsy. Each dinner reverts him to someone using prostheses for the first time, not someone who’s used them all his life.

He tentatively picks up his steak knife. He cuts the meat slowly and carefully. When he successfully cuts it into bite-sized portions without incident, he breathes a silent sigh of relief. The exhale has barely left his mouth when his father turns back towards him.

“Stop burying your head in your textbooks. You’re my son. You don’t need to study so hard to achieve the grades I expect from you. You should turn your attention towards building useful connections among your peers. Someone like Mark Henderson or Peter O’Neill would do for a start.”

The former has a father running for the senate. The latter’s mother runs the research and development team for a company Simmons’ father is hoping to acquire. Simmons is pretty sure neither boy knows he even exists.

Simmons swallows. At least whoever is reporting on his progress at the school hasn’t passed on the fact that Simmons has taken to eating in the chemistry lab to avoid being that guy going from table to table trying to find a seat. “I’ll try, sir,” is all he says, hoping it will be enough to satisfy his father for the moment.

“Invite Mark or Peter to dinner,” his mom suggests.

“That’s not a terrible idea,” his father says. He doesn’t sound impressed. If anything, he looks slightly suspicious.

She smiles, poisonously sweet. “I haven’t quite finished drowning _all_ of my brain cells.”

The remark sets the tone for the rest of dinner. Simmons forces himself to eat as his parents volley insults across the table at each other. He barely tastes the food. It’s hard to concentrate on the meal when he’s focused on avoiding his father’s attention. Eventually his father looks at him again, though Simmons has managed the entire meal without so much as a slight scrape of his spoon against the bottom of the soup bowl. His father is thin-lipped with frustration over the argument.

Simmons tries to brace himself.

“I see that you managed the entire meal without drawing attention to your prostheses.”

Heat crawls up Simmons’ neck. He doesn’t know what to say. Agreement would probably just earn a remark that he’s a good yes-man, but his father expects him to eventually take the reins of the company. Disagreement is a worse option.

Before he can formulate a response, though his mom says with a dangerous glitter in her eyes, “Why, Richard! You didn’t even mention how expensive the prostheses are! Getting soft in your old age?”

The conversation devolves from there. The only bright side is that his father just gives him a distracted order to invite the boys over next week when he excuses himself from the table.

He slinks back to his room. There he closes the door and shuts his eyes. Gradually the sick knot of misery untangles in his stomach. He tries to set aside his worry about the impossible task his father has given him. He can’t do anything about it tonight.

The worry still gnaws at him. He needs a distraction.

Simmons sits down at his desk. His shoulder twinges. He grimaces, trying to ignore it. He knows that having the right socket fit is important in prosthetic use, but he also knows he’s gone through three replacements in two years. If he admits that his latest growth spurt means he needs a fourth one even with the previous adjustments to the socket, his father will be furious.

He reaches up for the straps when the twinge of discomfort turns into a biting pain that radiates up his neck. He jerks back in surprise. His elbow swings wide and collides with the laptop.

It tips off the desk and lands with a dull, ominous thud on the carpet.

Simmons stares for a moment. His heart pounds unsteadily in his ears. That sinking dread returns, amplified by the thought of what his father will say if he finds out Simmons needs new prostheses _and_ has been careless enough to break his laptop.

“Please don’t be broken,” he whispers, to himself, to the laptop, to the universe.

There’s a panicked buzzing in his head as he kneels and inspects the laptop for damage. He feels a flicker of relief at no obvious sign of damage -- the screen isn’t cracked, there aren’t any major dents -- but he keeps examining it, certain that something’s wrong. After another second, he figures it out. Two of the screws has popped loose from the case.

He lets out a relieved breath. That’s easy enough to fix, as long as he can find the screws hidden in the carpet. In the meantime, the laptop will survive a slightly loose case. He just has to make sure the case doesn’t fall off completely and expose the electronics inside.

Simmons sets the laptop carefully on the desk, giving it a thankful pat. Then he starts hunting for the screws. His breathing steadies. The buzzing in the back of his head quiets to a low hum. He grimaces to himself. Apparently his body thinks he needs yet another obnoxious reaction whenever he’s upset. He rubs at the back of his head, trying to banish the weird sensation, and then goes back to combing his fingers carefully through the carpet. It takes a minute to find the tiny screws, but finally he has both.

With a screwdriver, it’s a simple fix. Simmons finds himself breathing a little easier as he works. His father would probably say something dismissive about Simmons’ inclination towards manual labor -- the Simmons family runs a tech company, they don’t stoop to blue-collar work -- but Simmons has always liked to solve problems.

After he fixes the screws, he boots up the laptop. It’s been lagging a little lately. He settles into his chair and studies it. He plans on just doing basic things he’s done in the past, like defragging the hard drive and cleaning the registry file.

He does that, but a thought keeps nagging at him. What if the problem is with the malware protection? He pulls up the software and starts analyzing it. He looks at how many ports it’s checking, the amount of RAM it’s using, what's it checking against and where is that loaded, how long does it remember if something is good or bad. Right, that's part of the problem. His fingers fly across the keyboard as he optimizes the sorting.

Only when he’s finished with that does he jerk out of the half-trance he’s fallen into. He blinks, aware that his neck is stiff from being hunched over the computer, and that his prosthetic is still twinging a little.

But none of that minor discomfort matters, because his laptop is running like he just bought it. Simmons smiles, pleased with himself. His father might scoff if he found out Simmons has been tinkering with the laptop, but the fact is that he fixed something.

It’s a good way to end the day.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks later, and Simmons has made zero progress with Mark and Peter. Maybe negative progress. He’s tried a couple times to approach the guys, but every time he chickens out and just ends up lurking awkwardly at the edges of their circle of friends.

It doesn't help that both of his prostheses are bothering him now. They're too loose on him, no matter how he adjusts the straps. It makes his gait awkward and throws his whole body off balance. His shoulder and hip are constantly twinging, but the rest of his body is starting to hurt too, trying to compensate. He’s been taking a lot of hot showers, trying to get rid of the ever-present ache in his back, but showers can only do so much.

He should tell his dad, but he keeps putting it off, both because of the stupid hope that his father will notice without him saying anything, and because he wants to be able to defend himself with the promise of Mark or Peter’s dinner visit when he admits he needs new prostheses.

Today, Simmons creeps into the house, too stiff and sore to hide it. At least there’s no one around but one of the maids, who just gives him a blandly curious look as he walks gingerly past her. He gets to his room and peels off his arm prosthetic. He winces as he does it, and winces again when he sees that the dull, throbbing ache is from the too-small socket rubbing his skin raw. Frustration wells up. For a second he has the stupid urge to throw it, even though that won’t do any good.

Even if he does work up the courage to talk to his dad about needing prosthetic replacements, the new and improved ones won’t be what he wants. Even with all the recent advancements in advanced prosthetics like with the C-Leg, it’s not quite good enough. He wants something like out of all the science fiction movies he secretly watches, cyborg limbs that respond to his thoughts.

He turns the prosthetic arm over in his hand, studying it bleakly. The sensors and small programmable microprocessor are state-of-the-art, because his father demands the best even as he complains about the price, but they’re still not what Simmons wants. What he wants isn’t possible with current technology. But if he improved the microprocessor and adjusted the sensors, it could be. His current sensors respond to his pectoral muscles and other muscles that would manipulate his missing arm, but if he changed the sensors to respond to his spine instead, that might solve or at least lessen the limited functionality of his limbs--

Simmons drops the prosthesis onto his desk with a clatter. There’s that buzzing in his head again, but now it feels different. It feels like something nudging at him, one idea after another on improving the prosthetic arm in front of him cluttering up his brain. It’s one thing to fix his laptop. It’s another to fix his prosthetic arm, something that cost over thirty thousand dollars to build. This is weird. This is weird, and it’s almost like he has another voice in his head, telling him things he shouldn't know how to do based on a rudimentary understanding of prostheses, and--

A terrible thought hits him with the impact of a truck going seventy miles per hour. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “No.” The denial escapes his lips through gritted teeth as a strange, insistent pressure settles into the spot between his shoulder-blades. He curls his shaking fingers into a fist and shakes his head again. “Not happening.”

Simmons already isn’t normal in his father’s eyes. His father expected a perfect son and Simmons was born without an arm and a leg. But if Simmons has powers, then _everything_ ’s awful. His father can’t know.

“I’m not--” His throat closes. He can’t even say the word empowered aloud, like it’ll bring his father to his door. He opens his eyes and glares at the prosthetic arm. “This isn’t happening,” he insists, and ignores the buzzing in his head and the pressure in his back.

His powers don’t like being ignored. When he takes a step away from his desk, the buzzing in his head grows louder and the pressure shifts and turns to an itch. He scratches at his back, but the itching just intensifies.

“Stop it,” he hisses, and swallows down a half-hysterical laugh. He doesn’t know much about empowered people. The only time they’re mentioned in the house is when his father is railing against them or has invited some local politicians to discuss the ‘problem.’ Can you talk to your powers? People have to be able to control them, or there would be a lot more rampant destruction around. Right?

The itching spreads. His entire back feels like he’s laid in a bed of poison ivy. This time he does laugh, the choked sound escaping his throat. He clamps his hand over his eyes. His eyes both ache and burn from the pressure. He can almost convince himself that’s why he has to scrub tears from his eyes as he repeats, almost pleading, “This isn’t happening.”

Simmons tries to keep denying it and ignore his powers. He really does. But the itching keeps spreading. It’s like when he had chickenpox as a kid, when his entire body itched and the oatmeal baths the private nurse gave him only relieved some of his misery, except this time it feels dialed up to a hundred.

He panics again when he glances at the time and realizes he’s due in for dinner in half an hour. His father can’t see him like this. “Fine,” he says. “Fine, I’ll-- I’ll try to--” He feels stupid talking to his powers, so he stops as he rummages for something that will help him improve the prosthetic arm.

Simmons quickly realizes he doesn’t have the right tools. His screwdriver isn’t the right size for such delicate work, and he doesn’t have anything else. He bites his lip. “I’ll work on it later,” he promises, desperate enough to forget his earlier embarrassment.

To his relief, the itching eases a little. There’s still that spot between his shoulder-blades, but at least it’s not his whole body anymore. Dinner is still a misery, Simmons tense and miserable over this new disaster, and when his father looks at him and snaps, “What is the matter with you?” Simmons freezes.

“Uh,” he says. His voice squeaks. He coughs. “I, uh. I need new prostheses, sir.”

A faint crease appears on his father’s forehead. “You just got your newest ones six months ago.”

“I know, sir, I just-- I grew another three inches, and--”

His father looks at him like his growth spurt is a personal failure on Simmons’ part. Simmons’ voice dies in his throat. Then his father says curtly, “I suppose it can’t be helped. I’ll have my secretary schedule an appointment for a new fitting.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Simmons escapes to his room as soon as he can. He starts to pace, winces at the painful grind of his prosthetic leg, and sits down at his desk instead. He scratches at the spot, but it doesn’t bring any relief. Apparently he’s going to have to live with it, at least until he gets his new prostheses.

A new suspicion grows. What if his powers aren’t content with the new prostheses? What if it demands he improve them? He boots up his laptop and starts searching. He has a feeling that he’s going to need some tools. And it's not like he was using his allowance for much anyway.

 

* * *

 

Simmons fidgets with the straps of his backpack. Nerves make his stomach roil. He lets the crowd of his fellow students jostle and push him along, even as he fixes his eyes on the office door at the end of the hall.

Inside the office is the guidance counselor. She’s earned a special license to work with teenagers whose powers have awakened with puberty.

He’s seen the mandatory PSAs played alongside the anti-drugs and the abstinence only ones at the beginning of every school year. In the videos, the guidance counselors are always friendly and helpful, large smiles on their faces and understanding in their voices as they welcome a nervous teenager into their office. Every video promises the same thing at the beginning and end: everything discussed with the guidance counselor is completely confidential. It’s one of the things his father has railed against most frequently, the fact that the guidance counselors aren’t allowed to tell parents when their kids have powers.

The guidance counselor will know what to do about his abilities. She’ll have government-approved brochures that say stuff like “So You Have Powers - What Next?” and “How Your Powers Can Help People!” She’ll know people who can help Simmons handle his powers. She’ll understand, because there’s probably at least eighty empowered kids in the school if the school matches up with the national average.

Simmons still hesitates as he nears the door. He already knows someone is reporting back to his father about his lack of friends. What if it’s the guidance counselor? There are laws against counselors breaking confidentiality, involving serious fines and even prison time, but his father has always had a way of bending the laws to suit him.

He feels sick at the thought of his father knowing. The dread propels him forward, past the office. He’s got his powers mostly under control, he tells himself. He doesn’t need anyone’s help.

He’s fine.

It’s fine.

The itch will go away eventually.


	16. Food For Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons invites Grif over to Netflix and chill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did promise a slightly less stressful chapter, right? And this is definitely mostly less stressful! 
> 
> Thanks go out to creatrixanimi and Aryashi, as always.

Simmons is still miserable when he drags himself to work on Monday. The Orange Blur has been radio silent since that single letter text, and Simmons’ brain has been playing out worrying scenarios all weekend. The latest one is that the Blur will decide that Blood Gulch is too dangerous and convince In-and-Out to move to another city.

He’s almost too preoccupied to notice how Grif isn’t his usual self. There’s a fixed scowl on his face. It’s not his usual bored frown; there’s genuine frustration simmering in his expression and in the tense set of his broad shoulders. He keeps checking his phone, but it doesn’t make him any less stressed out.

All morning Simmons debates minding his own business versus distracting himself from his own problems by helping Grif. And he and Grif are sort of friends now. Shouldn’t he ask if Grif’s okay?

When Grif picks up his phone for the twelfth time, Simmons clears his throat.

“Um, is something wrong?”

Grif blinks. He glances up, and Simmons smiles awkwardly. The scowl doesn’t change, but Grif just sounds mostly confused when he says, “Huh?”

“Is something wrong? You’ve just, uh, been checking your phone a lot.”

Grif groans. “ _ _Dude__. It’s bad enough with Donut and DuFresne around. If you want to talk about feelings too, I’m gonna lose my--” His phone chimes again. Whatever he sees on the screen makes him roll his eyes.

“I didn’t mention feelings,” Simmons points out. He hesitates, wondering if he should ask.

Apparently that question creeps into his expression, because Grif groans again. “I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Fine!” Simmons says. He tries not to feel hurt. “I don’t want to hear about it!”

“Good,” Grif says, and looks down at his phone, tapping out a message.

There’s a beat of silence as Simmons fights against his curiosity.

“Okay, but--”

“ _ _Simmons__.”

“No, just, I was thinking it sounds like we could both use a distraction! We should watch a movie at my place. Or some episodes of Black Mirror just dropped on Netflix and--” Simmons is cut off by Grif snickering.

Grif sets his phone down on the desk. His eyebrows are raised, and a smirk has replaced his scowl. “Are you asking me to Netflix and chill? Because that’s kind of gay.”

Simmons blinks at him. Then he feels his cheeks burn. “What?” The word comes out as a strangled squeak. He coughs and tries again to speak normally, feeling the heat creep down his neck and warm his ears. “No, I just-- you know what, shut up. Friends hang out and watch movies!”

“Did someone mention Netflix and chill?” Donut calls from his desk.

“No,” Grif and Simmons say in unison. They exchange looks of mutual alarm.

Grif hisses under his breath, “Swear you’ll never tell Donut I said that.”

“I swear,” Simmons promises. The embarrassed heat is fading slowly from his face. He probably should just drop it and let Grif go back to scowling at his phone, but instead he finds himself saying, “You’re really turning down free popcorn?”

“Hey, you didn’t mention free food,” Grif says.

Simmons rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I was going to have you over and not feed you.”

Grif starts to grin. “Should’ve started with that.”

“Probably,” Simmons says, smiling back. Then he realizes that this is Grif’s roundabout way of saying yes. He tries not to let his smile widen too wildly or look too excited. “Okay.” He turns back to his computer.

A second later, he’s hit by the realization that he’s having Grif over to his apartment. Nerves immediately twist his stomach. It’ll be fine, he tells himself. It’s just food and some TV, something people do all the time. He can totally do this without letting on that he’s never had a guest before.

 

* * *

 

“Holy shit.” Grif groans, sounding like Simmons just stabbed him. “The light’s __yellow__.”

Simmons blinks as he presses the brake pedal. “And now it’s red,” he points out.

Grif gives him a look that’s half-amused, half-annoyed. “Because you slowed down! Dude, I could’ve walked to your apartment by now.”

Simmons bristles. Grif has been grumbling about his driving since they pulled out of the parking lot. “Excuse me for obeying the law.”

“You drive like a ninety-year-old grandma.”

Simmons is about to roll his eyes when he spies a convenience store. A thought strikes him so hard between the eyes that his fingers clench on the steering wheel. “Oh crap,” he says. When Grif blinks at him, Simmons feels himself start to blush again. “Uh. I just realized I don’t actually have any popcorn….”

Five minutes later, they’re standing in front of an instant popcorn display, studying their options. Simmons starts to reach for one and then rolls his eyes as Grif says, “Lightly salted? You’re not even gonna go for the extra butter? Way to be a sucky host.”

“Lightly salted is delicious __and__ low sodium. With as many microwave dinners you eat, you should probably watch your sodium, so really, I’m being a good host.”

“Nah and also who cares. Come on, live dangerously. Try something crazy like cheddar cheese. Or this.” Grif grabs a box off the shelf. He makes a big show of looking at it and then shaking his head. “Never mind. You can’t handle it.” He slowly returns the box to the shelf. There’s a smirk lurking at the corner of his mouth.

Simmons realizes that it’s jalapeno flavor. He knows that Grif is messing with him and that he should just ignore him, but the protest escapes his lips anyway. “I can handle it! I just think traditional popcorn is a classic for a reason.”

Someone groans loudly behind them. When Simmons turns, he’s startled as he recognizes the man behind him. He wipes the recognition off his face, because it’s one of the mayor’s interns, the sarcastic one. Butters? No, Bitters.

“Just choose a flavor,” Bitters says, looking annoyed. “Some of us have places to be.”

“Don’t rush us,” Grif says. The hint of a smirk has broadened to a real one. He turns back towards the shelf. “You can ruin a movie night with the wrong flavor. You’ve got to look at every choice....or grab a random one off the shelf.” This last bit is said in a mutter as Simmons grabs a box.

“Let’s just go,” Simmons says as Bitters rolls his eyes. It’s only once they get to the check-out that he realizes he grabbed a sweet and salty kettle corn box. It’s not the worst choice. And at least it’s not the jalapeno flavor.

So that’s the first hurdle. The second one comes when they get to his apartment.

Simmons has just pulled out his keys when he remembers that he wasn’t expecting company. He’s suddenly consumed by the fear that Grif is going to get inside and figure out that Simmons is Professor Stupendous. He doesn’t think that Grif would run off and tell everyone, but the idea of anyone knowing makes him queasy.

“Uh, just, stay out in the hall for a sec,” he says quickly, trying to keep the alarm off his face.

Grif smirks.

Simmons, about to unlock the front door and slip inside, pauses. “What?”

“Dude, I won’t judge you for leaving dirty mags out.”

“ _ _What?!__ ” Simmons shrieks so loudly that one of his neighbors opens her door and pokes her head out to give him a startled and reproachful look. He blushes. “Sorry.” He lowers his voice to a furious whisper, glaring at Grif. “I’m not-- I don’t-- who has those lying around?”

“Uh, you’re a dude, you live alone, it’d be weirder if you didn’t.”

“Says who?!”

Grif looks amused. “Just saying, no judgment.”

“You’re gross,” Simmons informs him and unlocks the door. He closes the door on a still-smirking Grif. Then he does a hasty but thorough check of his apartment. Just like he thought, everything related to his hero identity is in his locked workshop. He feels the knot of worry unravel.

Then he hesitates. He wonders if he should take another minute to at least clean a little, but Grif is probably getting impatient out in the hallway. He looks around, grimacing at how spartan the place is, besides the huge screen TV. He takes one more second to disconnect his cyborg eye from the TV and turn off a few extra installed features -- Grif would definitely have questions if any TeamApp texts appeared on the screen mid-show -- and then goes to the door and opens it.

Somehow he’s not surprised when Grif enters and starts glancing around. When Grif actually crouches a little to peer under the couch, Simmons rolls his eyes and says, “Seriously? You know that it’s 2019, right? Most people use their laptops for, uh, that.” He gets embarrassed halfway through the sentence.

Grif laughs.

Simmons bristles, and then realizes Grif is laughing with him, not at him as Grif says, mock-solemn, “Simmons, please, the classical form deserves appreciation. I’m a man of culture.”

Simmons starts to say something about Grif’s complete lack of culture before he realizes that they’re actually having a conversation about their porn habits. That’s not a normal thing guys do, right? Or maybe it is. Simmons has no idea. It feels weird though, especially when Grif sprawls out on the couch and grins up at him.

Simmons clears his throat, feeling the heat creep back in his face. He tries to figure out a subtle way of changing the subject. It doesn’t happen. Instead he just mumbles, “So, popcorn! I’m gonna, yeah,” and retreats towards the kitchen area.

“Nice TV!” Grif calls after him. “Black Friday deal?”

Simmons makes a vague sound of agreement. He reads the instructions on the box and puts the first bag in the microwave. As he waits, the sound of popping kernels drown out anything else Grif says, and Simmons is left momentarily alone with his thoughts. Questions immediately begin chasing themselves in circles. Is one bag of popcorn enough? Should he do two? Should he offer Grif dinner? Is sitting together on the couch weird, or is sitting on a loveseat and letting Grif have the couch weirder? How long should Simmons invite him to stay? Maybe two hours is too long, or rude, or--

The microwave beeps at him. He jumps a little, weighs his options, and goes with one bag for now.

When he returns with the fresh popcorn, Grif has the TV on and is idly browsing Netflix.

“Uh,” Simmons says, trying not to clutch at the bowl. “I have some leftovers in the fridge if we want dinner too.”

Grif snorts. He looks up, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the popcorn. He gestures, and Simmons hands him the bowl. Grif immediately stuffs a handful into his mouth. Chewing, he says, “This was just a scam to get me to eat leftovers and admit you can cook, wasn’t it?”

“I can cook! I made you that cake!”

Grif swallows. “Cooking and baking are two different things, dude.”

Simmons would protest, but Grif isn’t exactly wrong. And he’s also distracted by the way Grif licks the salt off his fingers and then takes another handful. “That’s disgusting,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “I’m going to make another bowl for myself.”

“This wasn’t my bowl already?” Grif asks. Simmons can’t tell if he’s being serious or messing with him. Probably the latter, but with Grif and food, it’s hard to tell.

“It is now,” Simmons says. He gets himself a bowl and then hesitates, still wavering on where he should sit. He ends up sitting on the couch and instantly wondering if he should have chosen the loveseat, since Grif’s still sprawled out, taking up most of the couch. Grif doesn’t say anything, though, and at this point it’s probably weirder to move. Simmons rolls a kernel nervously between his fingers. “What did you want to watch?”

Grif shrugs. “Something with zombies?”

“A couple episodes of iZombie?” Simmons suggests. He’s been meaning to watch it, and it feels like a show Grif might like.

“Sure,” Grif says.

They eat their popcorn and watch the show in relative quiet, except towards the beginning of the pilot. They get into an argument over whether Liv’s ability to experience memories and take on the personalities of the people whose brains she’s devoured is scientifically feasible or not. It ends with Grif saying that when the zombie apocalypse happens, Simmons is going to be the dumbass complaining that the science doesn’t make sense as a zombie snacks on his arm.

Simmons takes it as a good sign that Grif only checks his phone once in the next two hours. It means he’s distracted from whatever is bothering him, right? And that Simmons isn’t being an awful host? He makes another round of popcorn and brings out some reheated leftovers just to be on the safe side as they settle in for episode three.

It’s nice to be distracted from his own problems too. He’s spent the last few days studying bombs and flame and impact-resistant designs to improve everyone’s suits, when he hasn’t been gripped by the awful conviction that the Orange Blur and In-and-Out hate him now. He feels worn to the bone, his head a little heavy.

Ravi’s saying something on the screen, but it’s hard to concentrate. Maybe if he closes his eyes--

There’s a warm hand on his shoulder and an amused voice in his ear. “Dude, you were totally that guy who fell asleep first at sleepovers, weren’t you?”

“What sleepovers?” Simmons asks, or tries to, his thoughts and his tongue as thick as molasses.

There’s a beat of silence as Simmons yawns, and then Grif snorts and says, “Yeah, I need to get home. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Simmons agrees. He’s working himself back up to full consciousness and has half-convinced his eyes to actually open. Then the hand on his shoulder shoves him, hard. He tips off the couch with a yelp, almost slamming his elbow against the coffee table. Suddenly wide awake, he glares up at Grif, who’s grinning. “What the fuck?”

Grif shrugs. “Just making sure I avoid your bitching when you wake up tomorrow with a screwed up back.”

Simmons stares at him in disbelief. “You didn’t have to shove me--”

Grif ignores his yelped protest, heading to the door. “Night.”

“This is the last time I’m inviting you over,” Simmons grouses, and then immediately regrets the threat. He doesn’t even mean it. He’s liked having Grif over, despite the mocking of his driving skills and Grif’s apparent inclination to shoving people off couches to wake them up.

Thankfully, all Grif does is grin like Simmons made a joke.

Simmons still frowns when the door shuts behind him. Grif didn’t seem to take him seriously, but maybe he did. Or maybe he was just pretending to have a good time. Or maybe--

A yawn interrupts his spiraling thoughts.

He goes to bed, before he can fall asleep on the floor.

 

* * *

 

Simmons gets to the office the next morning and hesitates in the hallway. It’s stupid to feel nervous, like he’s going to walk in and Grif is going to call him a loser and tell him that he doesn’t want to hang out again, but his stomach keeps twisting nervously.

He takes a deep breath and goes inside.

His gaze darts towards Grif’s desk first. Grif has a half-eaten candy bar in his hand, but he’s not eating. Instead he’s looking confused and slightly wary. When Simmons enters, Grif looks in his direction. He waves the candy bar in Simmons’ direction, beckoning him over.

“Any clue why Sarge is so happy?” Grif asks without preamble when Simmons gets closer. “Did he finally get me fired? You can tell me, Simmons. I’d rather hear it from you than DuFresene.” He snorts. “I’d take it from Donut too. At least he’d probably give me a consolation gift basket or something.”

Grif’s confusion must be contagious, because Simmons doesn’t understand a word of it. “I don’t-- how would he get you fired? Hasn’t he tried thirty times already?” he asks. Then he hears the humming. He turns and watches as Sarge hunches over his keyboard, a broad, unsettling grin on his face as he jabs two fingers at the keys. Simmons blinks. “...Yeah, you might be fired.”

His voice must carry because Sarge looks up and chuckles. “Now that would be the cherry on top, wouldn’t it? Grif getting fired, those idiots across the hall all calling out on the same day. Our victory as the best office in the company would be a cake walk!”

“Sarge!” Donut scolds from the door, looking scandalized. He and DuFresne both have large blue vases filled with flowers in their arms. “How can you think about the office of the month at a time like this?”

“A time like what?” Simmons asks.

DuFresne frowns. “Well, I’m not sure if I should tell everyone--”

“You already told Donut,” Grif points out flatly.

DuFresne grimaces. He sets the vase on the nearest desk and rubs at the back of his neck. He looks uncomfortable. “That’s true. I did, didn’t I. Okay, well. Let’s all remember that everyone grieves in their own way, so we might want to give him some space, but, well, unfortunately Church had a death in his family.”

“Oh,” Sarge says, deflating a little. “Well, that takes the fun out of winning the best office award, doesn’t it.”

Simmons, meanwhile, is already scanning the local newspapers for obituaries. A second later, an obituary begins to scroll across his cyborg eye.

_Leonard L. Church, scientist and entrepreneur, died unexpectedly on Saturday. The founder and head scientist of Freelancer Technology, a company at the forefront of empowered enhancement equipment, he joins his wife, Allison, and is survived by their two children, Carolina and--_

“Well, that fucking sucks,” Grif says.

“Thought you were our HR man,” Sarge says to DuFresne. “Church is Jewish. You don’t give a Jewish man flowers when he’s in mourning.”

Simmons tries to keep his surprise off his face, but no one else bothers.

Sarge scowls when he notices everyone’s stares. “Know your enemy!”

Grif raises his eyebrows. “Jewish people are your--”

"DON’T GO MAKIN’ MY WORDS ALL TWISTY!" Sarge bellows.

Donut stares forlornly at the bouquet in his arms. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

“We could research Jewish funeral traditions?” Simmons suggests, already moving to sit down at his computer.

Donut brightens. “Oh, good idea!”

Simmons finds the obituary first, skimming it as Donut hovers behind his chair. There’s a bit more about his company. He wonders what will become of it. Will Church and his sister inherit? He glances at the final paragraph, but there aren’t any helpful suggestions on where to make donations in Church’s father’s name, just mention of a planned private burial. Simmons pulls up a few websites next. He doesn’t know Church very well, but he wants to do something anyway.

“Just bring food tomorrow. Feedin’ people is a tradition everywhere,” Sarge says. He pauses and then adds hopefully, “Or we could cheer him up by telling him Grif is fired!”

DuFresne frowns. “How would that cheer him up?”

“It wouldn’t,” Sarge admits, “but it’d make my day brighter.”

That gets Grif’s attention. He rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, old man.”

"I'll, uh, google some Jewish recipes or something," Simmons says hastily. He starts another search, but he's distracted. It's one thing to think about how regular people died every day, from mundane things like heart attacks or strokes or old age, and then another to think about the risks that came with being a hero. This city has already lost Iteration. He resists the urge to shiver at how close they all came to losing In-and-Out too. He's researched the average hero's life expectancy. It's better than villains, as far as anyone can tell, but it's still not great. He makes a mental note to get back to work on researching suit improvements.

In the corner of Simmons' eye, Grif is back to frowning at his cellphone, the tension from yesterday back in his shoulders.


	17. Come to Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church and Carolina have a conversation. Tucker and Caboose have questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for letting me whine at her about how I made myself sad with this chapter and for helping me figure out how to write this bit in general. 
> 
> And to the folks in chat who answered some of my questions about Jewish burial traditions.

Tucker doesn’t know shit about Jewish funerals. He did some hasty googling earlier, so he knows not to say “rest in peace” or ask where the headstone is, but that’s about it. He definitely didn’t even try to memorize the prayers.

It’s a small service at the grave, with a handful of people. When Tucker’s grandparents had died, there had been tons of mourners. But maybe this is the way the guy wanted it, just having family and a few coworkers in attendance.

And apparently Church has family. Well, a cousin or something. Tucker keeps staring at the redheaded chick by Church, wondering why she looks so familiar. She’s pale in her black dress, her expression set.

Beside Tucker, Caboose shifts and heaves an unhappy sigh. He radiates unhappiness, his eyes fixed on Church as the rabbi begins the eulogy.

“I have never had the honor of knowing Leonard, but I have spent some time with his family, and I have been left with a very clear impression of the kind of person that he was.”

The rabbi continues, but Tucker’s distracted by Church’s silent reaction. His hands curl into fists at his sides. Tucker glances at Church’s cousin, but he’s missed her reaction if she had one.

When Tucker tunes back in to the eulogy, he hears, “Those who knew him even a little understood that Leonard was a deeply private man. Private, but in that privacy he was devoted. Devoted to his work, and to his wife. Even when he performed tzedakah, he did so anonymously whenever he could. I am told that after the hero Iteration's death, he donated thousands of dollars to the charity for the survivors and victims' families of the attack.”

Tucker should probably keep listening, but it’s weird, listening to this guy sum up someone’s life in like a five minute speech. Especially when he’s talking about Church’s _dad_ , someone Tucker didn’t know existed until he was dead.

Plus, there’s something strange about Church’s cousin. Tucker is trying to be subtle about his staring, but he keeps watching her. It’s not that she looks a bit like Church, though she does, but he keeps getting the feeling like he’s seen her before.

When the rabbi finishes his eulogy, there are a few seconds of silence. But Church and his cousin don’t say anything, and after a moment the rabbi nods and asks everyone to join in the prayers as the casket is lowered into the ground.

Tucker doesn’t know the words, but he catches Caboose silently trying to mouth along, his brow furrowed in concentration like he’ll magically learn Hebrew in five minutes if he tries hard enough. It’d be funny if this whole situation didn’t suck.

The rest of the funeral passes in one of those weird fugue states where it manages to drag on forever and be over in the blink of an eye. But then it’s time for the final part of the service, where Church and his cousin shovel dirt into the grave.

Church does it in short, jerky movements and then thrusts the trowel back into the dirt.

Caboose heaves another sigh.

Tucker leans over and whispers, “We’ll get to talk to Church in a minute.”

Frustration twists Caboose’s face, but he doesn’t argue.

From Tucker’s quick research, most of the time after the funeral everyone goes to the family’s house for the shiva thing. Church didn’t say anything about it, but then again, he hasn’t said much since he checked his voicemail and got the news.

Tucker jams his hands into his pockets and tries not to scowl, remembering Church’s expression going from confusion to disbelief to shock to something so complicated that Tucker couldn’t name any of the emotions twisting his blanched face.

A few of Church’s dad’s coworkers approach Church and his cousin, shaking their hands and murmuring how sorry they are.

Caboose takes that as a signal. He’s off like a rocket, making a wide berth around the grave, and it’s only Tucker grabbing his sleeve that keeps him from barging through the small group to get to Church.

Church sees them coming. His expression goes blank, and then he looks annoyed. He shakes the last person’s hand and then crosses his arms against his chest, hunching in on himself like it’s cold and not seventy degrees and sunny.

When the path clears, everyone heading to their cars, Tucker half-expects Caboose to grab Church for a hug. Instead he hesitates, twisting his hands together like he doesn’t know what to do with them, and peers anxiously down into Church’s face. “Hi, Church,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

Church’s cousin looks at them. Her expression hardens. Tucker’s startled by the dislike in her green eyes as she studies them both. There’s a subtle shift in the way she’s holding herself, something that pings Tucker’s instincts even before she says flatly, “So you’re my brother’s...friends.”

Tucker realizes several things at once. He takes an involuntary step backwards. Those green eyes narrow in on him. He was already sweating a little in his suit, but now his tie feels too tight around his throat. He tries not to shoot Church an accusing look as he mutters, “Uh, didn’t know Church has a sister...who’s a cop….”

From the corner of his eye, he sees that Caboose has gone still. There's no fidgeting at all. Just Caboose, standing there, his mouth half-open and his eyes wide. "A sister?"

Church grimaces. “Uh. Yeah.”

“A _sister_ ,” Caboose repeats. He takes one step forward, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Did you travel very far--” The smile falters halfway through as Church’s sister turns her narrowed eyes on him. Tucker has never seen Caboose try to make himself look small before, but now he shrinks a little, his gaze darting between her and Church.

Church’s lips go thin. “I’ll, uh, catch up with you guys. Carolina and I need to talk.”

Carolina makes a sound that’s too harsh to be a laugh. “Yeah.”

Caboose doesn’t move. He keeps looking between Carolina and Church, an anxious furrow between his eyes.

Tucker recognizes an out when he hears one. Carolina might not have pulled out her cuffs, but he’s not sticking around to see if she’s willing to arrest people at her dad’s funeral. He grabs Caboose’s arm. “Come on, we’ll meet him at the car,” he says. When Caboose ignores him, Tucker tries to tug at his arm. It’s like trying to move a mountain. “Come on.”

Caboose moves then, but he keeps his eyes on Church. It’s only Tucker’s careful steering that keeps him from walking backwards into the grave, which would’ve been a whole extra clusterfuck on its own.

When they’re out of earshot, Tucker hisses, “She knows about us.”

“She doesn’t like us,” Caboose says in a small voice.

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, no kidding.”

 

* * *

 

Church shouldn’t have brought Tucker and Caboose to the burial. If he’d been thinking clearly, he wouldn’t have, but it’s too fucking late now. He squirms beneath Carolina’s furious stare.

“Your friends aren’t coming to Dad’s house.”

Carolina is the smartest person he knows. He’s sort of been assuming she’s figured the Doctor Terrible thing out, but that knowledge was just one of the many things he’s shoved to the back of his mind and refused to think about. Still, hearing the rage in her voice makes his already roiling stomach twist. He mutters, “Yeah, well, neither am I.”

“...What?”

The rage is gone from her voice, replaced by something worse. He doesn’t meet her eyes, not wanting to see the look on her face. But the guilt curdles in his stomach and turns to frustration. He’s not going to sit in that house and pretend to be sad when he’s a million other things, like so fucking angry that he can _taste_ it. He’s _not_.

He grits his teeth. “I’m not sitting shiva for him, Carolina.”

“Of course you are,” Carolina says. Her voice rises, and the rabbi glances curiously in their direction. She shakes her head, a small, violent movement that makes some of her hair escape its braid. “You can’t make me do it alone again.”

He looks up at that. “You weren’t alone, and I couldn’t have been there anyway! I was--” He almost says dead, but the rabbi is still there. “I was sick, and you know that!” Dead for months, while Carolina and their dad said Kaddish.

Carolina huffs out a breath. She doesn’t look angry anymore, just tired. There are lines on her face now that weren’t there last year. She's half a stranger. “I know you couldn’t be there, but Dad was...he was there, but he wasn't _there_. Don't make me sit shiva alone.” _Don’t leave me alone_ , her expression says.

Church shakes his head. There’s a faint buzzing in his ears. “I can’t.” The words scrape his throat. “Carolina, I _can’t_ \-- you don’t get it--”

Carolina’s expression turns hard again. “How can I? You haven’t told me anything. Church, I found out you were alive because you were on _TV_.”

Buzzing. There’s buzzing in Church's ears and throat, and that taste of ozone on the back of his tongue, and the echo of a voice saying, “No new information. Again--”

She doesn’t need to know about that. Not at the funeral.

He doesn’t say anything, but something must show in his face, because Carolina takes a step back. She reaches up to the black ribbon pinned to her dress. She rubs her thumb across it, then squares her shoulders. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

“Carolina,” he says, or thinks he says through numb lips.

She’s already turning, but she pauses. Maybe he did manage to get her name out. “I don’t know what you’re doing with those two, but it has to stop.” Then she walks away, back straight, shoulders still squared, and doesn’t look back.

Church stares after her. “ _Fuck_.” He swallows against the taste of ozone. He jams his hands into his pockets and stares up at the cloudless sky, trying to get himself under control, trying not to remember--

“Fucking asshole,” he says to the grave. “You gave up? I never pegged you for a quitter.” It’s only now that he’s alone that he lets himself look at the other grave, with its headstone still gleaming new. “I--” His throat closes. “I should’ve come by sooner, I know I just--”

He struggles, gropes for an explanation. “I -- it’s been a shitty year, Mom.” The inadequacy of his own words makes him laugh, the sound choked and raw, until suddenly it’s not laughter wrenching his chest. He takes off his glasses and scrubs a hand across his face.

“Sorry,” Church mutters when he can speak again. Even as he says it, he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for. There are so many ways he’s fucked up lately. He takes another breath. “Carolina doesn’t get it, but I-- I’m trying to make Blood Gulch safe. I’m trying, okay?” He rubs his hand across his eyes one last time and then puts his glasses back on. “I’ll try to get better about visiting,” he says. He looks at the gleaming headstone. His chest tightens. “And I’ll bring a stone next time.”

He turns and walks towards the parking lot. It’s exhausting, just putting one foot in front of the other. He wants to get back to the lair and sleep for a week.

But when he nears the car, Tucker says flatly, “Your sister's a cop.”

Church grimaces. He resists the urge to rub at his eyes again. His head is starting to pound, tension like fingers clamped around his brow. “Look, we’ll talk about it later,” he lies.

Judging by Tucker’s expression, he knows Church is planning to avoid the conversation. Tucker starts to say something. Then his eyes flick down to the ribbon pinned to Church’s suit and he shakes his head. “Yeah. Later.”

The relief that hits Church shouldn’t feel like a punch. He grits his teeth and fumbles with the car handle. “Let’s go.”

Caboose is already in the car. He’s staring at Church, which isn’t unusual, but he’s silent, which is. Then Caboose says, very quietly, “You have a sister.”

“Caboose,” Church groans, hearing the irritated bite in his voice too late. “It’s complicated.”

Tucker snorts as he gets into the driver’s seat. He mumbles under his breath, “Yeah, she’s a cop, of course it’s fucking complicated.”

“You have a _sister_ ,” Caboose repeats, like Church and Tucker haven’t said anything. “Why didn’t we know you have a sister?”

Church feels a pang of guilt. Caboose has told them all about his family. They know a little about Tucker’s son, even if he refuses to let them actually meet the kid. Church is the only one keeping secrets in their team. But the idea of even trying to talk about it makes his ears buzz again, and he's just...he's so tired.

“It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not,” Caboose says firmly. “Your sister is here and you’re not talking to her and she’s right there and she’s _sad_!” His voice rises, an upset flush creeping into his face.

“I know!” Church snaps.

“Then--”

Tucker twists in the driver’s seat. He glances between them. “Caboose. I'm curious too, but it's been a long day. Pester Church tomorrow.” Tucker pauses. His gaze lingers on Church and he adds sourly, “Unless his sister decides to arrest us since she's a cop, _apparently_.”

Church doesn't rise to the bait. He closes his eyes.

There's a second of silence. Then Tucker starts the car, muttering, "At least keep your mouth shut about Junior. Pretty sure the whole supervillain thing will get CPS on my ass....."

Church doesn’t listen to the rest of Tucker’s mumbling. He also doesn’t look to see if Caboose is staring at him, because he can feel the weight of Caboose’s silent gaze.

Instead he thinks about Carolina, sitting shiva alone.


	18. Run for the Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidents happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go out to Aryashi for looking this over for me!

“Guess who’s back, bitches!” In-and-Out announces cheerfully, appearing behind Doctor Terrible and flipping his cape over his head. She disappears with a pop of displaced air and then reappears behind Laserblade. She yanks on his cape and Simmons can hear the broad grin in her voice as she says, “Did you miss me?”

“No,” Doctor Terrible says sourly, but his muffled response is half-lost under Laserblade’s fervent, “Fuck yeah. This sausage fest _sucks_.”

Simmons swallows back a laugh behind his mask, relief making him almost giddy. Even as he welcomes the sight of In-and-Out darting around the bank like she never had a concussion, he’s distracted by the sight of Moonboose floating a bag of money out of the smashed open vault. Why have the Trio decided to jump from petty property damage and the occasional sad attempt at hostage taking to an actual bank robbery?

“Aw,” In-and-Out says. “That’d be sweet if it wasn’t gross.” She gives Laserblade a pat on the cheek with enough force that Simmons can hear it. “Now try and catch me.” She flips Laserblade’s cape over his head too and begins to teleport all over the bank, pausing only to clap Magic Mouth and Doctor Pacifist on the arms and say hello as they continue getting the civilians out of the bank.

Doctor Terrible aims his gun in her direction and fires. She doesn’t even have to teleport to dodge. His shot shatters a computer screen. “Damnit!”

“Heh,” Sergeant Blood says, shaking his head. “Pathetic.” He hoists up his shotgun. “You really can’t hit the broadside of a barn, can ya?” He aims and Doctor Terrible yelps and ducks a second before the laser shot would’ve hit him square in the face.

Simmons _really_ hopes that Sergeant Blood has his gun set to stun.

There’s a flash of orange. Then the Orange Blur has the previously floating bag in his arms. He grunts a little, like the bag of money is heavier than he expects, or maybe he’s fighting Moonboose’s powers. “Moonboose, just put these back and save me the trouble. We all know how this is gonna go, right? It’s gonna go like this: you keep bringing out the bags and I keep putting them back, like one big dumb circle, one big damn waste of time, and we're both gonna get bored, so just give up now, okay?”

Moonboose blinks. He glances in Doctor Terrible’s direction, who rolls his eyes and snaps, “No, Moonboose. We’re taking the money.”

“Sorry,” Moonboose says, sounding genuinely apologetic.

“Eh, had to give it a try if it could save us some time,” the Orange Blur mutters. Simmons thinks that he shrugs. Then he and the money are gone.

“Mr. Blur!” Moonboose says. He sounds a little reproachful now as he gestures and two bags of half-stolen money fly towards him. With his other hand, he grabs the nearest chair and throws it in the direction of the floating bags as though to ward off the Orange Blur. He’s already picking up a second chair as the first crashes harmlessly to the ground. “You are not helping!”

“That’s the idea, Moonboose,” the Orange Blur says, snatching one of the bags and bolting.

“Come on,” In-and-Out says, reappearing beside Laserblade. She goes to give him another slap, and he dodges or at least raises a defensive arm. She laughs. “You’re not even trying! Try and catch me, pencil dick!”

“Pencil _what_?” Laserblade yelps. Two glowing swords appear in his hands while In-and-Out snickers and teleports away. He shifts his feet, yells, “Hey, In-and-Out, catch this!” as In-and-Out reappears, and throws the swords just as Moonboose tosses the second chair.

There’s movement, and a startled, pained yell that makes Simmons jump.

Then the Orange Blur reappears, doubled over, his hands clamped to his leg and a breathless, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” hissed through his clenched teeth.

The smell of burned flesh hits Simmons’ nose a second before understanding does.

“Uh,” Laserblade says. He sounds shocked by his own success. “I, uh, I--”

Growling, Sergeant Blood whips his shotgun around and fires.

The blast hits Laserblade dead center. He goes flying backwards, tumbling across the tiled floor to land almost at Moonboose’s feet. For an instant he’s horribly still, and then Moonboose reaches down to shake him and he groans faintly.

Sergeant Blood grunts, “Forgot to switch it.” His shotgun swings around towards Doctor Terrible, but Doctor Pacifist scrambles forward, waving his arms, and says, “Sergeant Blood! Keep it on stun!”

“Hey, dumbass,” In-and-Out says, her voice tight as she appears next to her brother. She grabs his shoulder, and Simmons watches the Orange Blur lean into her grip, hissing in pain. “We’re not fucking taking _turns_.”

Only then does Simmons shake himself free of his shock. His stomach twists. He knows that the blade cauterizes the wound it makes, but that only means that the Orange Blur won’t bleed out. Who knows how much damage that leg has taken? Simmons takes a step forward, wavering between going to the Orange Blur or helping Sergeant Blood handle the Trio.

In-and-Out makes his decision for him. The Orange Blur is halfway through muttering through gritted teeth, “It’s not that bad--” when he and In-and-Out teleport away.

There’s a second of silence.

Doctor Terrible’s hands are shaking. “We’re going,” he says, his eyes darting from Laserblade’s unconscious form to Sergeant Blood to Simmons and back again. When Sergeant Blood growls, Doctor Terrible’s finger twitches on the trigger.

Apparently trembling hands give the villain better aim. Sergeant Blood has to take a hasty step sideways to avoid being hit.

Doctor Terrible’s face is pale behind the mask. “Moonboose, get Laserblade.”

Moonboose sighs. He looks more frustrated than upset as he slings Laserblade over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “This was supposed to be fun,” he says, and Simmons realizes that he’s pouting. “This isn’t fun.”

Doctor Terrible doesn’t take his eyes off Sergeant Blood, but he growls, “ _Moonboose_.”

Moonboose sighs again. His shoulders shake with the gesture. He retreats towards the door, a bag of cash trailing behind him. He waves towards the heroes. “Tell Mr. Blur I hope he feels better soon!”

His cheerful words are met with long, incredulous stares from everyone except for Magic Mouth as he re-enters the building and freezes in place. Magic Mouth blinks, his gaze passing slowly over Laserblade draped across Moonboose’s shoulder and Doctor Terrible and Sergeant Blood’s stand-off. He says slowly, “...I missed something, didn’t I?”

Doctor Terrible laughs sourly. “That’s a goddamn understatement.”

“Bye, Mr. Mouth!” Moonboose says, waving at him as well.

“Um, goodbye?”

Sergeant Blood keeps his gun aimed towards Doctor Terrible until the Trio is out of sight. Then he shoulders it with a scowl. “Always knew the Blur was sloppy,” he mutters. “Getting stabbed was only a matter of time.”

“ _Stabbed_?” Magic Mouth squeaks.

 

* * *

 

Tucker wakes up slowly to the feeling that an elephant has stomped on his chest. It’s almost enough to make him forget about his throbbing migraine, which is about ten hangovers happening at the same time. When he swallows, he can taste the color red. It’s weird. He keeps his eyes shut, like that’ll help. It doesn’t. Instead he keeps remembering the Blur’s pained yell and the smell.

His stomach twists and not just from the effects of Sergeant Blood’s stupid gun. He hasn’t accidentally hurt anyone since he was first figuring out his powers and almost cut off his own ear.

He hears movement, and cracks his eyelids open a little to see Church perched on the arm-rest of the couch in the lair, staring down at him. He squints back, trying to get a read on Church’s emotions. It’s hard to tell if he looks pissed off or concerned. Probably pissed off. Hurting the Orange Blur hadn't been part of the plan. 

It takes Tucker a second to remember how his mouth works.

“Dude, that fucking _sucked_.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Church says, rubbing a hand down his face.

Tucker licks his lips, still tasting red. He really hopes that’s not a permanent side effect. The Blur’s yell keeps playing on a loop in his head. He licks his lips again. “Did you see, uh--”

Church interrupts the question with a flat, “Pretty sure you didn’t cut off his leg.”

Relief makes Tucker squeeze his eyes shut. “Okay. Good. That’s…. Yeah.”

“Some villain you are,” Church says.

When Tucker looks at him, Church is smirking faintly. Tucker starts to roll his eyes and immediately regrets it. The gesture makes his head pound. “Hey, I’m not _evil_. I don’t get why that’s so hard to understand. Besides, you call yourself doctor, asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Church says. The smirk fades from his face. He shifts on the edge of the couch. “So--”

“Three thousand!” Caboose says.

“ _Fuck_ , Caboose,” Tucker groans as Church almost falls off the arm in surprise. “Indoor voice.” Then he registers what Caboose said. “Wait, three thousand what?”

“Three thousand dollars,” Caboose says. He holds up a fistful of cash and grins.

“Great, I’ll buy a thousand dollars worth of aspirin,” Tucker mutters, but he’s secretly relieved. At least they got _something_ out of the bank robbery. A thousand dollars will buy a lot of groceries and some kick-ass clothes for Junior. He sits up slowly, wincing. The pain’s fading, but the taste of red in his mouth lingers. “How long was I out?”

Church shrugs. “Uh, however long it took us to get back to the lair? So like...twenty minutes.”

“Fun,” Tucker says sarcastically.

Caboose stares at him. “It wasn’t fun,” he says in a weird tone, like he thinks Tucker is being dumb. “You and Mr. Blur got hurt!” Then he brightens. “Oh, but I know what _is_ fun!” He lifts the bag of cash and swings it with a cheerful yell of, “Pillow fight!”

The bag hits Church in the shoulder. Church’s surprised yelp turns into a groan as he tumbles off the couch and slams against the wall. He slides to the ground, and for a second Tucker can’t tell if he’s conscious or not.

“Caboose, don’t kill Church. I don’t want to deal with the smell,” Tucker says as he leans over the edge of the couch and tries to see if Church is breathing. He relaxes when Church’s mouth moves. He can’t figure out what Church is mumbling, but he’s probably cussing Caboose out. Before Caboose can hit him too, Tucker points at the bag. “We’re not having a pillow fight when I feel like shit, and we’re definitely not having a pillow fight with a bag that weighs like a hundred pounds.”

“But--”

“No,” Tucker says, and uses his dad voice. He doesn’t use it too often in case Caboose builds up an immunity or something, but when he does use it, Caboose actually listens.

As predicted, Caboose’s mouth snaps shut.

"Caboose, I'm taking your thousand dollars," Church mutters, rubbing at his head.

"Okay!"

"Uh, split that fifty-fifty," Tucker says.

“Wait! I want money for a bouncy house. Church, can I--”

“No,” Church says.

 

* * *

 

 **Magic Mouth:** _so how is Blur doing??_

 **In-and-Out:** _being a little bitch, but he’ll live_

Simmons hesitates. He intends to text something short and simple like, _I’ll take him off active duty for a week. I hope he recovers soon!_ But his fingers seem to have a mind of their own.

_Will there be permanent damage? Did the doctor prescribe bed rest? If so, for how long? I can set up the TeamApp alerts so that he won’t be bothered like I did for you._

He sends it and immediately regrets it, but his fingers still won’t behave, tapping nervously as he waits for a reply. He doesn’t get an instant response, and he tries to ignore the voice in his head that says In-and-Out is trying to figure out a way to give him bad news without freaking him out.

 **In-and-Out:** _chill prof, he’ll limp for a week or two, but he’ll be okay, takes more than pencil dick’s sword to do anything major_

Simmons sighs in relief even as he frowns at his phone. Is she being cagey about the extent of the Orange Blur’s injury? Then again, maybe she just thinks it’s none of his business. Or maybe she thinks he shouldn’t have been standing around, watching while everything went wrong. He grimaces.

He dithers over how to reply and finally texts, _I’ll still put him on silent mode for the TeamApp for a week. Hope he feels better soon._

There’s no response. He tries not to read too much into it.

Simmons refocuses on his computer screen. He reads over his latest schematics for the durable material he’s been designing for new costumes for the team. His powers stir as he returns to the problem he’s been wrestling with for a few weeks. After a few false starts, he thinks he’s found a way to blend certain fibers and magnetic alloy together to create extreme durability without losing mobility. It won’t do anyone any good if they can survive in one thousand degrees Fahrenheit but can’t run.

It also won’t do anyone any good if somehow the new fabric causes issues with people’s powers. It doesn’t seem likely, but Simmons wants to cover all his bases.

He privately messages In-and-Out.

_Sorry to bother you when I know you're helping the Orange Blur, but I've been working on protective material that will withstand high temperatures and extreme cold and will make our hero costumes essentially armor. I was hoping to run tests soon and wanted to check on power restrictions._

**In-and-Out:** _enough science talk prof so you're trying to build us some badass costumes? are you keeping my design or what?_

 **Professor Stupendous:** _Oh, I hadn't thought about design, just focused on durability and mobility._

Simmons blinks as his phone alerts him to a new message. For a second he's worried that someone's hacked his phone somehow, because there's so many flashing images that his eyes briefly cross trying to decipher all of them at once. Then he realizes who the message is from and recognizes all the images as a lot of flashing exclamation points, a bunch of emojis that look sort of excited, and a parade of clothing gifs, followed by actual words.

 **Magic Mouth:**   _In-and-Out says you're making us new costumes??? I'm happy to help with the designs! I've been wanting to tear Blur's costume off him for AGES!!!_

Despite the worry still twisting his stomach over the Orange Blur, Simmons laughs. He can hear the Orange Blur’s deadpan, “Gross,” like the other man is standing next to him. He shakes his head and texts back, _I’d appreciate the help, but I wasn’t planning on making big changes on anyone’s costume design._

 **Magic Mouth:** _Listen, mister, you can’t play with my heart like this! In-and-Out and I have PLANS_ _. You and Blur at least need a new look. A little less monster college dropout and Terminator, a little more appealing to the public!_

Simmons frowns. _My costume isn’t creepy!_

 **In-and-Out:** _bitch pls_

 **In-and-Out:** _so when are we testing this shit out_

Relief fills Simmons again. He might have just stood around watching during today’s clusterfuck, but now he has the opportunity to be useful.


	19. Quizzical Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of the office gets distracted by a quiz. Grif tries to remain a man of mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay between updates. Real life is kicking my butt at the moment, but I still have so much plot planned for this story. The updates might just not come every week for a bit, but I promise they're still coming!
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for looking this over and making suggestions, as always, and to underthebluerain for actually inspiring this chapter, since we definitely needed a bit of a breather from all the drama.

Simmons yawns as he enters the office. He’s running low on sleep, thanks in part to worry over the Orange Blur and constant texts from Magic Mouth and In-and-Out making suggestions about the new costumes. They’re really excited, which Simmons is trying not to get nervous about. What if it turns out the fabric nullifies their powers somehow? What if he’s managed to screw stuff up? His worries led to a night of restlessness and weird dreams when he could sleep at all.

In fact, maybe he’s still asleep, because Grif’s at his desk and looks like he’s been there for a while, two empty takeout containers at his elbow and a chocolate bar dangling from the corner of his mouth like a cigarette.

“Uh,” Simmons says. “You’re here early.”

Grif turns. He pulls the chocolate out of his mouth. “And you’re stating the obvious, dude.”

“Well, it’s weird! You’re--” Simmons pauses, squinting. The fluorescent lights make everyone look sickly here -- Donut complains about it constantly -- but Grif looks tired too. “Uh, you okay?”

Grif rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Just slept wrong and did something to my back.” Before Simmons can say anything, Grif adds, “Don’t tell Donut or DuFresne. I’m not dealing with their attempts at massages all fucking day.”

“Okay,” Simmons agrees. “But...don’t you have sick leave?”

“Yeah, and Sarge would _love_ for me to take off. I’m not giving him that satisfaction, Simmons. Ever.”

Simmons frowns. “Ever? If you get the flu, you shouldn’t--”

“ _Ever_ , Simmons.”

Simmons squints at Grif, trying to figure out if he’s being serious. Erring on the side of caution, he says, “Grif, if you give me the flu to spite Sarge--”

Grif snorts. “Suck it up. You're one of those nerds who freaked over his perfect attendance, weren't you?”

"No," Simmons lies. "I'm just saying, if you give me the flu--"

“Grif has the flu?” Donut asks, sounding alarmed. When Simmons glances at him, he actually has his hands out as though to ward off Grif and any viruses. “Grif, don’t get me sick!”

“I’m not sick,” Grif growls. “I--” He clearly almost mentions his back, and then remembers why that is a bad idea. He rolls his eyes as Donut gives him a wide berth and moves his chair as far away from Grif as possible. “Not contagious, Donut!”

“What’s this? Grif’s sick?” Sarge says, sounding pleased.

“Fuck you guys,” Grif mutters, with enough bite that Simmons suspects he feels even worse than he looks.

Simmons hesitates, Maybe he should offer Grif some aspirin or something.

“Aw, don’t give me false hope that you’re miserable, Grif!” Sarge says. “It ain’t April Fool’s.”

Grif just glares at him for a second, and then puts his headphones on.

Everyone goes to their computers. Simmons tries to focus, though he’s tired and now he’s kicking himself that he should’ve just offered Grif some aspirin. Maybe he can offer to grab Grif's lunch so he doesn’t have to order delivery or something? Unless that’s weird. That's probably weird. 

He’s distracted from his thoughts by a sudden laugh from Donut, loud enough that everyone turns.

“Oh, sorry!” Donut says, noticing everyone’s looks. His face is a little pink, and the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting another laugh. “I was, um, taking a break and doing this quiz and it was really funny.”

Simmons leans over. “Which Blood Gulch Hero Are You?” he reads. He feels a little stupid for immediately getting excited, though it’s clearly one of those internet quizzes someone made when they were bored.

“Yeah!” Donut says. “I got Magic Mouth--”

“Did you laugh because you got a weirdo?” Grif asks sourly.

Donut looks more annoyed than Grif’s snark warrants, narrowing his eyes in Grif’s direction. Maybe everyone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, because there’s a slight edge to Donut’s voice as he says, “No. I--”

Donut stops. He makes a face and laughs again, this time more awkward than amused. He rubs a hand across his jaw and shrugs, mumbling, “Uh. It’s an inside joke with a friend. But I like Magic Mouth’s style!”

Grif gets a look on his face as though he’s prepared to list all the reasons why Magic Mouth sucks.

Simmons interjects hastily. “We should all take the quiz! It’d be fun.”

“Fun,” Grif says flatly. Then he blinks. A faint smirk crosses his face and Simmons should probably be worried by the way Grif nods and says, “Yeah. Okay. It’ll be fun.”

“I’ll email everyone the link!” Donut says.

A second later, Simmons’ inbox chimes.

He pulls up the quiz.

_What is your reason for becoming a superhero?_

_A. I want to protect people._

_B. I suffered a tragedy and want to save others from new tragedies._

_C. I want fame and money._

_D. With great power comes-- yeah, you get it._

_E. I don't! I keep getting dragged into these things._

_F. I hate villains._

It’s a weird quiz, Simmons discovers. There’s a question about his favorite fruit. How does that even make sense? Do the other heroes go around telling interviewers their favorite fruit, or is the quiz maker just making stuff up?

When he gets to the last question, he’s interrupted by Grif saying, a gleeful note in his voice, “Hey, I got Sergeant Blood.”

“ _The hell you did,_ ” Sarge snaps. He storms over to glare over Grif’s shoulder. His face flushes red. “That ain’t-- you-- ya cheated! Ya didn’t answer honestly!”

Grif just looks thoughtful. “I guess Sergeant Blood and I are a lot alike--”

“Lies and slander!” Sarge howls.

“Grif,” Donut says, a little reproachfully. “You know Sergeant Blood is his favorite. Now he’s going to be mad all day.” He eyes Sarge, whose face is still a brilliant scarlet, and adds pensively, “Or have a stroke.”

Grif just grins. Apparently messing with Sarge is a better cure than aspirin. Then Grif glances over at Simmons and raises his eyebrows while Sarge continues to fume. “Who’d you get?”

“Oh, uh,” Simmons says. He scans over the last question and answers it.

When the result pops up, he blinks and has to read it a second time to realize he wasn’t wrong.

“Well?” Donut prompts.

“Um, I got the Orange Blur,” Simmons says.

There’s a beat of silence and then Sarge snorts. “Well, that proves it. The quiz is plumb foolishness.”

Simmons squints at the result.

_You got: The Orange Blur!_

_You believe your powers are there to help people, even if sometimes they feel like more trouble than they’re worth. You also talk. A lot. Probably too much, though never about the really important things. You keep things close to your chest and don’t trust easily, but you’re protective of the people you care about and for civilians who can’t defend themselves. Still, you’d probably rather be hanging out with In-and-Out than fighting villains._

“I, uh, sort of thought I’d get the Professor,” he says.

Donut waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, he's not on the quiz, he's too new!”

“Oh,” Simmons says. His stomach sinks a little. He ignores the pang of disappointment. “I guess that makes sense…” He reads over the results again, and adds slowly, “I guess...I got him because I mostly agree with the kind of hero he is? He wants to help people, and uh, I…” Simmons trails off, a little flustered. He can’t exactly say that he agrees that his powers are sometimes more trouble than they’re worth. Even thinking about it spreads phantom itching down his back. He rolls his shoulders like he can shake away the memory and glances over at Grif, hoping Grif will say something.

He blinks when he meets Grif’s eyes. Grif just looks at him, eyebrows slightly raised, for another second before he smirks again. He leans back in his chair, and a wince flickers across his face. Still, the smirk mostly stays as he drawls, “Please keep complimenting Blur, dude. You'll give Sarge an actual heart attack.”

Simmons eyes Sarge, who is still clearly annoyed. “Uh….”

“Come on, Simmons,” Grif says, grinning now. “Tell us how awesome Blur is and how useful his powers are, all that shit.”

“It sounds like you don’t need my help,” Simmons says. A question nags at him. He resists the urge to ask it, because he feels stupid even wondering about it. The question slips out anyway. “Um, do they update the quizzes? Professor Stupendous is sticking around, so--”

“Three months,” Donut says. When Simmons blinks, he shrugs and says, “That’s how long it took for them to put Magic Mouth in the quiz after his first appearance. I guess they want to make sure, well--” He makes a vague but disturbing hand gesture.

Simmons remembers the average life expectancy of heroes and villains. “Oh. Right.”

“Eh,” Grif says, shrugging. “The Professor guy seems okay. He's lasted longer than I thought.”

Sarge snorts. “He’s better than the Blur, though that ain’t saying much. Now quit wasting time and get back to work!”

Simmons doesn’t immediately grab his headphones and unpause the audio. Grif wasn’t complimenting him-- and honestly, it wasn’t even much of a compliment-- but it still feels good to hear people say he’s not a terrible hero.

 

* * *

 

“Delivery,” says a bored-looking guy with an insulated pizza delivery bag on his shoulder.

Grif reaches for his wallet. His back’s still bothering him. Simmons can see him pause and grit his teeth for a second before he fishes out some cash and passes it over in exchange for two boxes.

“Aw, you should’ve said you were ordering,” Donut says. “We could’ve made it a party.”

“Some party,” Grif mutters. He opens up one of the boxes and the smell of sausage and pizza sauce and cheese fills the room.

Simmons opens up his drawer, hunting for the emergency bottle of aspirin there. As he searches, he makes a show of squinting at the boxes. “Wow, only two pizzas? Are you sure he got your order right?”

Grif tears off two slices from the first pizza. Simmons can’t decide if it smells delicious or disgusting. It’s greasy; Grif’s hands are already shining as he folds the two slices together like a sandwich and stuffs it into his mouth without answering.

“You’re gonna have a heart attack before you’re forty,” Simmons informs him, and then finds the aspirin bottle. He starts to offer it, looks at the grease on Grif’s fingers, and opens the bottle himself. “Here. For your back.”

Grif’s eyebrows go up. He looks at Simmons long enough that Simmons starts to get flustered. Then he grabs the bottle and dumps out a handful.

“The recommended dose is--”

Grif tosses the entire handful into his mouth and swallows.

“--two…. Okay, never mind, you’re gonna have liver damage before you’re forty.”

“Aw, are you worried?” Grif asks, grinning.

“No!” Simmons snaps. He can feel his face getting hot as Grif keeps grinning at him. “I mean-- yeah? Sort of? I mean, you hurt your back, I’m just being a concerned--” Friend? Can he call himself Grif’s friend? They’ve hung out and Grif has come to his apartment, but…. “--Person,” he concludes weakly.

“Seriously, I’ll be fine,” Grif says. He tears off another two slices of pizza, but instead of slapping them together for another weird sandwich, he offers them to Simmons. “Eat something and chill out.”

When Simmons doesn’t immediately take the pizza, Grif waves the slices towards his face. “Take the pizza or leave it, Simmons. One time offer only.”

“You’re willingly giving up pizza?” Simmons says, giving Grif an eyebrow raise of his own.

Grif rolls his eyes. “Don’t make it weird. Fine. Going once, going twice--”

Simmons takes the pizza. The slices really are as greasy as they look, but his stomach growls at the cheesy smell of them, reminding him that he’d been tired and distracted and barely eaten breakfast. “Thanks.”

“Oh, is Grif sharing?” Donut calls from his desk as Simmons tries to take a bite of one without promptly getting grease or pizza sauce on his shirt.

“Not with you,” Grif says.

Donut makes a theatrical sound of affronted shock. “Uh, rude!” His offended look disappears after a second, and he shrugs. “Then again, if you’re contagious…. Good luck, Simmons! Maybe I’ll just order pizza myself. Or Japanese. I’m in the mood for sushi.”

“Don’t care,” Grif says, but it doesn’t have the same bite as before. Maybe the aspirin is kicking in. He makes another pizza sandwich.

Simmons eats his own slices, feeling pleased with himself at Grif’s improved mood.

 

* * *

 

“See you tomorrow!” Donut calls cheerfully. He’s out the door before Simmons can say anything. Simmons wonders where he’s going in such a hurry.

Simmons checks the time to make sure Donut hasn’t left early, as he sometimes does, and then closes out his browser. It’s only when he stands up that he realizes that Grif hasn’t budged from his chair.

Simmons squints in his direction. Usually Grif’s the first one out the door. But if his back is still bothering him….

Simmons hesitates. He has a fierce internal debate with himself before he clears his throat.

“Grif. Do you, uh, need a ride home?”

Grif looks over at him. There’s a flicker of something like surprise on his face. Then he smirks. “You’re just trying to figure out where I live, Simmons. Admit it.”

“No, I’m not!” Simmons protests. “I mean, I _am_ a little curious--” When Grif’s smirk widens, he adds, hearing the whining note in his voice too late, “You know where I live!”

Grif snorts. “Yeah, ‘cause you gave that up so easy.”

Simmons is pretty sure that Grif is teasing, but he bristles a little anyway. “Says the guy who agreed to come to my apartment for free food.”

“Hey, I never said I wasn’t easy.”

The words hang in the air for a second, and Simmons finds himself looking around for Donut even as Grif makes a face and adds, “But I don’t let people know where I live. No one knows, and I like it that way.”

A thought occurs to Simmons. “Wouldn’t DuFresne know?”

“What?” Grif says blankly.

“Wouldn’t anyone from HR know where you live? When you signed the contract?”

Judging by Grif’s expression, he never considered that. He doesn't look happy by the discovery. "Ugh, does he?” he mutters, and then shakes his head. “Well, he hasn't shown up at my place so I'm gonna go with he's such a do-gooder he won't look at my address unless it's an emergency. But dude, way to ruin the fantasy.”

“I’m sorry for bringing common sense into this conversation,” Simmons says, grinning. He pauses. "So that's a no to drive you home."

"That's a no," Grif agrees, but he smiles back.

Simmons’ phone buzzes in his pocket as he gets into his car. The text scrolls in front of his cyborg eye.

**In-and-Out:** _so when are we doing the tests??? mouth, doc and I are ready to go whenever!_

Simmons blinks. Right, Doctor Pacifist should be there for the experiments. That makes sense.

**Professor Stupendous:** _Um, we could try for Thursday night, as long as nothing villain-related happens? It will be just the basic fabric though, since it sounds like you and Magic Mouth are still working on the designs._

**Magic Mouth:** _You can’t rush perfection!!! besides, we can’t decide anything until we see how the fabric moves and breathes, how it feels rubbing up in our sensitive spots!_

**Professor Stupendous:** _Right. Thursday then._


	20. Love, Death, & Villains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolina issues an ultimatum. Church considers past decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one of the reasons the fic has those warning tags, just FYI! 
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi as always and to chat who offered some helpful suggestions for a few of the scenes.

Church jumps when his phone rings and starts to skitter towards the edge of the desk. He grabs it, willing his heartbeat to slow down. Just because the last time someone called instead of texted it was Carolina telling him about their dad didn’t mean it was going to be bad news.

He looks at the screen. _Sis._ His stomach sinks. Okay. Never mind. This is going to suck. He glances over at Tucker and Caboose, who both have headphones on and apparently missed him practically jumping out of his skin.

He ducks into the staff bathroom. “Uh, hi, Carolina.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Carolina hisses, so angry that her voice shakes, “ _Hi?_ ”

Church winces. In retrospect, that was a bad way to answer the phone. “Uh-- what I meant to say was--”

Carolina doesn’t let him finish. “I’m sitting shiva, not oblivious. Your friend hurt a hero.” She spits out the word friend, sarcastic and sharp.

Church tries not to think about the smell of burned flesh, the way his heart dropped with Tucker to ground when he’d thought Sergeant Blood had-- He swallows, his mouth dry, and says, “Yeah. I was there. It was an accident.”

“I don’t care.” When he starts to say something, Carolina snarls, “ _I don’t care._ You hurt a hero! This whole stupid villain thing stops now.”

Church bristles at the disdain in her voice. He knew she wouldn’t understand what he’s doing, but it’s still frustrating. He pulls the phone away from his ear so that he can glare at it. “It’s not stupid! And you don’t even like the heroes!”

“It doesn't matter. You're stopping this. _Now_.”

“I--”

“Now, or I'll turn you in myself.” Carolina’s voice is colder than ice.

Church’s stomach twists. “You wouldn’t,” he says, but he can hear the uncertainty in his voice. “How would you explain-- you’d get fired, maybe even arrested--”

“You’re not listening!” Carolina snaps. “I don’t care! And if--” She stops. When she speaks again, she sounds tired. “And maybe I’d deserve losing my badge. You have two weeks. Return your tech and stop this, or I’ll stop you myself.”

Church tries to speak, but she’s already hung up.

He spends a minute just breathing around the tightness in his throat. Each unsteady inhale and exhale feels like another bit of sand dropping in an invisible hourglass. Two weeks. He has two weeks to figure out a way around Carolina’s ultimatum, because he can’t stop being a villain. He’s doing the right thing. He _is_.

Then again, he thinks, sudden doubt gnawing at his stomach, he’s made bad decisions before.

 

* * *

 

**Ten Months Ago**

Church revives the same way he always does -- the taste of ozone in his mouth, the adrenaline rush that makes his entire body shake, the jolt in his stomach like he’s been falling and is about to hit the ground.

He flails, a strangled shout escaping his lips as his eyes fly open. “Mom!”

She’s not there. No one is. He’s alone in an unpleasantly familiar room, the one where his dad monitors his corpse until he revives. Carolina and their mom had painted the walls blue a few years back, trying to feel it less like a laboratory, but the bright color doesn’t make it any more welcoming.

Church’s eyes dart around. How long has he been dead this time? Longer than an hour, because he’s home. At least a day or two, because someone would be waiting with him otherwise. His stomach clenches. Fuck, he hopes he hasn’t been dead a week.

The door opens.

Church’s heart stops for a second because his dad looks different. There’s more silver in his hair, and lines on his face, and new, deep shadows under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept for ages, and he looks...he looks _old._ Fuck. How long was Church dead?

The terrified question must show on his face, because his dad says, “Three months.”

“Oh,” Church says. He relaxes a little. Three months sucks, but it isn’t a year or a decade. But there’s still tension in his shoulders, his heartbeat unsteady as he tries to remember the last few minutes before he died. “What happened? We were-- where’s Mom?”

His dad looks at him.

Everything stops. Church’s heart, his breath, his thoughts, everything gone still and silent at the grief in his dad’s face.

“No,” Church tries to say. The denial comes out as a whisper, if it comes out at all. He shakes his head. He closes his eyes, like if he can’t see his dad then it isn’t real, it didn’t happen, she isn’t-- “No!”

His eyes are burning, but the rest of him feels cold. He shakes his head again. His dad’s face blurs. “This is fucking-- it’s bullshit, she can’t-- I just--” A sob wrenches itself from his throat. He doubles over, cursing and crying until he’s gasping into his arms and too exhausted to do more than shake.

“I’ve been thinking,” his dad says.

Church wipes a trembling hand across his face and tries to focus.

The grief is still in his dad’s face, permanently stamped in the silver of his hair and the new lines on his face, but there’s a light burning in his eyes. “We can fix this,” he says, and bends a little so that they’re face to face. “If we can discover how you revive, we can save her. We just need to experiment.”

“Experiment,” Church repeats raggedly.

His dad nods. “We never performed an extensive study of your powers because of uncertainty of the revival time-frame, but if you’re willing to let me study them, I can understand your powers. If I can understand them, then I can replicate them. We’ll bring her back.”

Church slept through most of his science classes, but his dad’s super smart. It sounds plausible. And anything is better than sitting here, useless, guilt twisting up his stomach and this grief like glass in his throat. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

 

* * *

 

Church dies and keeps dying, until his world is narrowed down to three things: the constant taste of ozone in his throat, the painful pressure of the IV lines in his arms, the smothering weight on his chest when the pentobarbital starts to kick in. He loses track of how many times he’s died, but it feels like a lot.

With every resurrection, Church’s hopes dwindle and his dad grows more frustrated and remote.

“Perhaps we need to try another method,” his dad says as Church stares up at the ceiling and tries to stifle a frustrated sob. He paces around the lab, his white-knuckled hands clasped behind him. His jaw is tight, his eyes distant. “Something more true to the initial events.”

“No,” Church says. He doesn’t realize he’s said it until his dad looks at him, his expression going blank with surprise. Church sits up slowly, trying not to jostle the IV lines. His lips are dry. He can’t remember the last time they paused so he could have some water or eat. He swallows against the lingering taste of ozone, tries to get his jumbled thoughts in order.

“I know I-- I agreed to this, but, Dad, this sucks and I don’t think...I don’t think it’s gonna work. I don’t think we can bring her back--”

“I see,” his dad says. His expression hardens. “You’ve given up. You don’t want her back.”

Church recoils, feeling the words like a slap. “Of course I fucking want her back!” he yells, his voice cracking. “I just don’t think my powers will help! We can try something else. We could-- we could-- there’s gotta be someone in the world with healing powers or resurrection powers that work on other people--”

Betrayal twists his father’s face. “You agreed to this!”

It’s like getting another lethal injection, the anger in his dad’s voice going straight to his heart. He drags in a breath, whispers, “I know, but I just...I want to stop. Please.”

His dad’s expression turns unreadable. The silence seems to last forever as they stare at each other, Church searching his dad’s face for any signs of softening.

Then his dad says slowly, “We’ll discuss this later, after you’ve rested.”

A thought hits Church between the eyes. He tries to keep his expression from changing and squashes the suspicion. “Okay,” he says. “Later. Just-- I think we should look for other empowered people, maybe they can help--” His voice starts shaking. He snaps his mouth shut.

He keeps himself together until the door closes behind his dad. Then he starts to hyperventilate. The thought comes back, relentless. _His dad didn’t want to stop._ Church could hear it in his voice.

His dad’s love for his mom has always been a fact of life. Grass is green, the sky is blue, and Leonard Church loves Allison McAllister. It’s never been a terrifying thought. It is now, when it means more experiments, more dying, more pain.

Church can’t stay here. He has to leave before his dad decides to make him stay.

He pulls the IV lines out of his arms, swearing at the ache and then again at the blood. He clumsily staunches the bleeding with his bed sheets. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s still shaking, but his head feels stuffed with cotton.

There’s a decontamination shower. The hot water is a welcome shock and chases away some of the panic, if not the grief lodged in his throat. He closes his eyes as the water half-scalds him. The places in his arms where the IV lines went in are still bleeding a little, the skin beginning to bruise. He stares down at the purpling skin, wishing that his powers could deal with non-fatal injuries too.

He could go to Carolina. Just as quickly as he considers it, he shakes his head. Guilt coils tight in his stomach. He can’t go to her. He can’t talk to her about this. He _can’t_.

There are fresh clothes in a drawer. Church grabs them, hissing in frustration as he fumbles around with his wet, clumsy hands. Finally he gets himself dressed, but panic is making his ears buzz. How long as it been? What if his dad comes back and realizes he’s leaving? He needs to show his dad he’s serious. For a second his mind is blank. Then he remembers the other parts of his dad’s home laboratory. There’s got to be something there, something valuable, that he can use as insurance.

“A gun,” he says a few minutes later, staring at the prototype. A quick look at his dad’s notes shows this is what he’s been working on when he’s been waiting for Church’s latest resurrection. A bitter laugh scrapes its way from his throat. “Okay. Fine.”

He grabs it and staggers, surprised by the weight.

Then he runs.

 

* * *

 

Church bites into a greasy burger. It probably should taste disgusting from how cheap and grubby this place is, but it tastes amazing after not eating anything for months. And it’s definitely been months. According to the server and the slightly cooler air outside, it’s October.

He tries not to groan. The server has already been giving him weird looks after the question about the date. Now she’s escalated to squinting towards his duffel bag. He really doesn’t need her messing around with that. The cops would probably wonder about the thousand dollars from his now empty bank account. Oh yeah, and the gun.

He takes a second bite.

“Hey, turn up the TV,” someone says.

A familiar voice fills Church’s ears.

“This is Dylan Andrews, reporting to you live with breaking news. Yet another villain has decided to test her mettle in Blood Gulch. Reports are saying that her powers seem to be wind related. Expect blackouts throughout the downtown area. Residents are advised to avoid the following streets as the heroes attempt to--”

Church doesn’t hear the rest. There’s a furious buzzing in his head. He stares at the heroes who darting around, doing nothing as they try to figure out the extent of the rookie villain’s powers. “It’s bullshit,” he says, the words escaping his lips without thought.

The guy sitting in the next booth groans in agreement. “Right? I’m gonna have to get on the goddamn highway just to get home tonight. Fucking hero-villain bullshit.”

Church keeps staring at the screen. Blood Gulch has always been a brief stop for villains trying to learn the ropes and make a name for themselves before they move onto bigger cities. Meanwhile, big cities like Valhalla have had the same heroes and villains duking it out for years.

He remembers his mom once, laughing dryly and saying, “Sometimes I think Valhalla is safer than Blood Gulch. At least you know what you’re getting into with their villains. Blood Gulch is like playing Russian roulette.”

Church latches onto a fragment of a plan. He can’t save his mom. But he can make the city safe. He just has to make sure villains stop using the city as their personal training ground.

His foot bumps against the duffel bag. He can feel the gun. He looks back up at the screen, where the heroes are still trying to fight the villain. Bitterness wells up, choking him. They’re useless. They’re useless now, and they were fucking useless back when--

He straightens, dropping the half-forgotten burger back onto its plate.

The heroes are worthless. It’s time for a villain to claim this Blood Gulch instead.

 

* * *

 

It’s late. Most of the windows in the surrounding buildings are dark, most of the people inside them sound asleep. There’s a tension in the air, though Church can’t tell if it’s his own nerves or the storm that the news promised earlier, rolling through the city a little later than anticipated.

The nearest undamaged streetlamp spills light over him and the villain he’s cornered. Church leaves his finger slightly above the trigger. He stares at the guy, anxious and triumphant at the same time. He wishes he could say he chose his target carefully, but really this guy was just easy to find, taking out streetlamps and traffic lights.

“You have three days to leave the city, or I find you again and shoot you.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Nah,” says the villain.

“ _Nah_?” Church squawks.

“Nah,” the guy says with a small shrug. “I can’t take you seriously with that ski mask.”

Church flushes angrily under the itchy mask. Before he can say anything, the villain keeps talking.

“Dude, villains don’t give a shit about cops, or Sergeant Blood, or whatever weird vigilante shit you're trying. You're like a shitty cop or shittier hero. Not even a cop. You look like some mall cop trying to play dress up. The only thing impressive is your gun and I’m pretty sure that’s fake.”

Fake? Church squeezes the trigger. The shot goes wild. It carves a chunk of brick out of the wall behind the guy, about three feet above and two feet to the left of him.

The villain goes still for a second. He looks up at the hole. “Were you trying to actually shoot me, or was that just a shitty warning shot?”

“A warning shot,” Church lies through gritted teeth.

The villain sighs. “See? You should’ve led with the gun. Now _that’s_ almost cool.”

Church can feel the situation slipping away from him. “I don’t need your fucking advice, goddamnit!”

“Yeah, you do,” the villain says flatly. He’s been sounding amused, but now he sounds serious. “Especially if you’re gonna try this with every villain in Blood Gulch. ...Or did I offend you messing with traffic lights? If you’re trying this with everybody, you're totally gonna die. Some of them are hardcore.”

“Some villain,” Church spits out. “You sound worried.” Bitterness coats the second sentence. This asshole is acting concerned, but his own dad--

“Uh, I’m a lover, not a fighter,” says the villain.

Church snorts. “Laserblade doesn’t sound like the name of a lover.”

“Says a dude who probably hasn’t even thought of a villain name.”

“...Shut up.”

Laserblade snickers. “Seriously? You don’t have a name?” He glances around. “Is this prank? Are you just messing with me? Is this some reality show? You’re not actually trying to be a villain.”

Rage chokes Church. He doesn’t remember dropping the gun. It just feels like he blinks and then one of his hands is fisted in the front of Laserblade’s costume instead. The other arm is pressed against Laserblade’s throat. He glares down into the villain’s startled eyes. He’s aware of a warning heat at his side, knows without looking that Laserblade has his sword ready. He doesn’t care.

“I _am_ a villain,” he hisses. “This is my city. I don’t need a stupid costume to kick everyone out.”

Laserblade stares at him.

Church feels a bitter satisfaction at the first hint of wariness in his face.

The wariness doesn’t last long. The stare does, though, Laserblade’s eyes meeting his. A calculating look lights them. He doesn’t seem scared, much to Church’s annoyance, but then again, that sword can probably cut Church in two in a couple of seconds. Laserblade is frowning when he does something and the heat at Church’s side disappears. Then he gives a small nod, his chin pressing against Church’s arm. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay?” Church repeats. He blinks. Hope flutters in his chest. “You’re gonna leave?”

Laserblade snorts. “Uh, no. But I wouldn’t mind less competition.” Church can feel his eyes narrow, and Laserblade adds, “Look, some of these guys are creepy as hell! They think a high body count is what makes a villain. So here’s the deal. I’ll help you actually act like a villain, we’ll get rid of the real freaks, and you’ll let me stick around.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, you do. Full offense, you kind of suck at this. And you forgot the most important thing for a villain.”

Church squints. “What’s that?”

Laserblade grins at him. “Presentation.”

“What?” Church says, confused. Laserblade banished his laser sword, which feels like a truce, so Church takes a step back, his arm dropping from Laserblade’s throat. “What does that mean?”

Laserblade sighs. He mumbles, “Why does no one ever get that reference? Megamind is a great movie! But seriously, you need to work on this--” He makes a vague gesture that incorporates Church’s entire body as Church scowls. “--before you actually fight villains.”

Church is tempted to tell him to fuck off. But maybe the asshole has a point. It’s going to be harder to scare off villains if they’re laughing at his ski mask. Maybe he does need to wear a real costume and pick out a name.

“Fine,” he says. He doesn’t try to hide the sulky note in his voice. He’ll use this guy until they’ve cleared out all the other villains, and then he can kick Laserblade to the curb. “Where do we start?”

“First, you’re watching Megamind,” Laserblade says. “Gotta respect the classics. Then we’ll come up with a costume and a name.” He pauses. His eyes flick down to Church’s half-forgotten gun. “You had one good idea besides the gun: starting with the small-time villains. We'll go after one of them next.”

Church bares his teeth in a grin that Laserblade can't see. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

A week later, Church squints at their target and says, “This dude’s name is _Moonboose_?”

“Yeah,” Laserblade says.

“...Did you decide we should go after him because of his dumb name?”

Laserblade snickers. “Like Doctor Terrible is any better.”

Church glares at him. “Shut the fuck up. It’s a great villain name!”

“Sure,” Laserblade says without conviction. He nods towards Moonboose, who’s busy twisting a construction sign into a pretzel. Dude is strong. Church makes a mental note to keep out of arm’s reach. “But he isn’t running around killing people. Figured he’d be a good start.”

Church adjusts his grip on his gun. He looks at Moonboose for a second. There’s light reflecting off his weird astronaut helmet, but from where Church and Laserblade are concealed in an alley, he can hear the guy humming to himself, some off-key, cheerful melody. Church takes a deep breath. Determination fills him. He’ll start small, make a name for himself, and then get all of the villains out of the city.

He steps forward and yells, “Moonboose!” He angles himself so that his cape billows dramatically behind him. It mostly flaps, but Laserblade swore it would make for an impressive silhouette.

Moonboose tosses the construction sign aside and waves. “Hi!”

“Uh, hi,” Church says, briefly thrown by the cheerful greeting. He rallies. He points his gun as Laserblade summons his laser sword and steps forward too. He growls, “My name is Doctor Terrible and--”

“Hi, Doctor Terrible!”

Church glares. He puts more of a snarl into his voice, easy to do between his irritation and the thought of clearing villains off the street. “My name is Doctor Terrible, and this is my city. So you’re gonna leave and find some other place to bother, or else you're gonna get hurt.”

“I didn’t know it was your city!” Moonboose says. “That’s really cool! But no. I need to stay here.”

“No, you need to _leave_ ,” Church snaps. He’s getting that same sinking feeling he had when he first threatened Laserblade. So much for people taking him more seriously in this costume. He exchanges a look with Laserblade, who shrugs. “We will hurt you--”

“Oh!” Moonboose exclaims. A cloud temporarily blocks the sun, reducing the helmet’s glare so that Church can see the guy’s expression. He looks weirdly delighted. “Wait, are you guys a team? Villains can do that?”

“Yeah,” Laserblade says at the same time Church snaps, “It’s just temporary!”

Moonboose bounds forward. Church flinches and jerks his gun up, but he might as well have been holding nothing. Moonboose ignores the gun, his eyes fixed on Church. “Can I be on the team?”

Church stares. “What?”

“Can I be on the team?” Moonboose repeats. “I'm really strong!”

Church barks out a disbelieving laugh. Is this guy serious? “No!”

“What if I said pretty please?”

“No,” Church growls. “I'm kicking villains out, not making some fucking club!”

“You chose _him_ ,” Moonboose points out. He’s close enough that Church can see the way he wrinkles his nose and looks at Laserblade. “I'm better than him!”

Laserblade looks annoyed. He holds his sword up, brandishing it towards Moonboose. “What? I have a badass sword! Badass swords are better than super strength!”

Moonboose makes a scoffing sound. “Um, my powers are much cooler than some dumb glowy sword.”

“No, they’re not!”

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Are--”

“Goddamnit, you’re both dumbasses,” Church snaps, frustration turning his voice shrill. He clamps his mouth shut, seething over this stupid clusterfuck.

Moonboose refocuses on him. “Please?” he asks again, now ignoring Laserblade. A plaintive note creeps into his voice. “Being a villain isn’t fun. It’s kind of...lonely....”

The unexpected sadness in Moonboose’s voice catches Church off-guard. There’s a sympathetic ache in his throat. He swallows, but the ache grows to a painful lump. His face gets hot beneath his mask. He drags in a breath, trying to get himself under control.

That’s when Moonboose says, “Oh,” quiet and surprised. He has large brown eyes. They meet Church’s through the helmet. “Are you lonely too?”

“No!” Church’s voice wobbles. He coughs, pretending not to notice the way Laserblade is watching them both. He shrugs. “I guess you could be our minion….”

“Okay!” Moonboose says happily. Then he points at Laserblade. “Or he could be ours.”

“Shut up,” Laserblade says, but he sounds mostly amused. He tilts his head and adds, looking at Church with an expression he can’t quite figure out, “So far you’re 0-2 on actually kicking villains out, dude. Are you gonna adopt the next villain we fight too?”

Church remembers the villain with the wind powers. She’s still at large, after her tornado damaged an entire city block and the heroes focused on saving civilians instead of catching her. He shakes his head. “No.”


	21. Long Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hero and villain family drama get temporarily knocked to the sidelines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're getting into the major plot of the first arc! And we finally get some Grif POV! Only took 75,000 words, ha. 
> 
> Thanks again to Aryashi, without whom this fic wouldn't anywhere as much fun to write or as good.

“Can’t believe I have to take a fucking taxi,” Grif mutters as he limps into the apartment.

Kai looks up from where she’s reading Playboy. She rolls her eyes at him. “Why are you complaining? It’s my money.” There’s a smile in her voice, but Grif doesn’t miss the way she’s watching him, concerned. “Plus, just ditch your fucking job, Dex. I don’t know why--”

“Nope. Not letting my boss win,” Grif says for what feels like the hundredth time.

It doesn’t go over any better than the first and last time. Kai just gives him a look like she thinks he’s an idiot. Still, he’s not giving Sarge the satisfaction, even if it means taking a taxi instead of running everywhere.

He sinks down onto the couch, grimacing as he stretches out his leg. After a few days it doesn’t feel like he’s being stabbed again every time he moves. Still hurts like a bitch though.

Grif closes his eyes. His stomach is gnawing on itself. The upside to his speed powers is that he heals pretty quickly. The downside is that healing takes a lot of energy. He’s always hungry, but now it feels like he’s low-key starving every hour or two.

“Can we order pizza?”

“You’re so basic,” Kai informs him. He doesn’t open his eyes when she pats his cheek. “That’s okay, I still love you, bro. Pizza first, but I’m ordering some stuff from that Jamaican place you like for later.”

Right, Grif hasn’t been there in a while. He smirks a little, wondering if Simmons could handle those spices. Probably not, but it'd be fun to watch him try. “Yeah, okay.” He fishes out two protein bars to eat while they wait.

He’s halfway through his second pizza when a familiar song sends Kai’s phone half-leaping out of her hand.

_“ Woop-woop! That's the sound of da police! That's the sound of the beast!”_

“You have the dumbest ringtones,” Grif says even as he drops the pizza back into its container. His appetite isn’t gone, but it’s definitely muted, because that’s the alert for the TeamApp. His own phone stays silent in his pocket. Apparently the Professor meant it when he said he’d take Grif off active duty until he was healed.

“Uh, each song I choose is perfect,” Kai informs him, grinning. Then she looks at the message. Her smile freezes. Her eyes flick up and over towards Grif.

He can see the exact second she decides to lie to him, because her smile unfreezes and shifts into an exaggerated grimace. “Sergeant Blood wants a team meeting without you. Bet he’s gonna try to kick you out while you’re down. Don’t worry, I’ll defend you.” She teleports into her bedroom.

Grif gets to his feet with a grunt and follows her, watching as she yanks her costume off its hanger. “Yeah, that was bullshit. What’s going on?”

“I just told you,” Kai says, but she’s avoiding his eyes and her shoulders are tense. She’s never been a good liar. Her general approach to anything is honesty blunt enough to cause head trauma. The only thing she keeps quiet about is their civilian identities. Everything else is fair game. 

“Is it the Trio?” Grif guesses. “Look, I can be patient. I’ll wait to punch Laserblade until my leg is healed.”

Kai looks at him. She bares her teeth. “Oh, I’m gonna punch him in the dick the next time I see him. He’ll _never_ have kids.”

Grif doesn’t feel sorry for the guy, though he winces on instinct. Still, Kai’s reaction doesn’t feel right. Why the lie? If it was really about the Trio, she would’ve gone straight to dick-punching threats and then promises to avenge Grif’s leg.

He debates with himself for a second, and then grabs her phone off her bed, ignoring her squawk of protest.

 **Professor Stupendous:** _The news is reporting another bomb threat, this time at the courthouse. My ETA is about fifteen minutes._

The memory of Kai falling hits Grif like a train. He throws the phone down.

“I’m going,” Kai says before he can open his mouth. Her expression’s set.

He knows that look. It’s the same look when he grabbed her after their first appearance as heroes and told her that they weren’t going to keep doing this stupid shit. He lost that argument then, and he’ll lose this one now. He still glares. “Your hobby fucking sucks,” he informs her. “And I’m coming.”

“But--”

Grif stares at her. She huffs, worry and relief flickering across her face. “Fine. Just don’t mess up your leg.”

Grif isn’t going to make her a promise he can’t keep. He just nods. Reaching for his powers always feels a little like turning on an engine, an invisible turn of an invisible key, his body warming like an engine before he moves from point A to point B.

He darts to his room, changes into his costume. He doesn’t feel like he’s moving any faster, but he knows he is, because Kai is still putting on her mask when he gets back. His leg twinges, protesting, but it’s bearable for the moment.

“Come on,” she says.

Her voice sounds slow to his ears. He feels a spike of familiar impatience, mixed in with the worry he always feels whenever they get dragged into hero bullshit. He just wants this over with, the bomb found and disarmed, and him and Kai back at the apartment, enjoying some well-earned mango cheesecake and coconut toto.

She stretches out her hand.

He takes it.

 

* * *

 

Kai teleports them out of the apartment and into the street, teleporting them from block to block until she gets them in front of the courthouse, right in the middle of the mass of police surrounding the building. She holds onto his hand for longer than necessary. Then she steps away, a gradual movement that seems to take minutes instead of seconds.

The first thing Grif hears is someone cursing a lengthy blue streak. The woman must be cursing fast, because each syllable and vowel doesn’t feel as stretched out as people’s usually do. He looks around, distracted by the slowly flashing red and blue lights and the way everyone is running around in slow motion. He spies a cop with a streak of purple in her hair, glaring at everyone in the vicinity. That can't be regulation. He'd almost like her, if she wasn't a cop bringing Kai back into this bullshit. 

“How the fuck does someone get a bomb into a goddamn courthouse?” she yells.

She doesn’t seem to expect an answer. Instead her furious gaze locks on Kai and Grif. She waves them over. Grif tries to pay attention, though it’s hard when it takes forever for the people around him to get through a single sentence, much less two or three or four or--

“The one fucking good thing about this clusterfuck is that everyone working in there is trained for bomb evacuations. We’ve just got to worry about the dumbass civilians.”

“And the bomb,” Doctor Pacifist says. He wilts a little at the officer’s expression.

“No shit,” she says sourly. Her eyes flick down to Grif’s leg. “I heard about your fuck-up with Laserblade. Can you search for the bomb?”

“Yeah,” Grif says, ignoring the look Kai sends his way. “I’ll be slower, but still living life in the fast lane compared to all of you slowpokes. I’ll be fast as lightning, just as long as I can get through the courthouse no problem, as long as there’s no problem. Is there gonna be a problem? Cause I want to find the bomb and get the fuck outta Dodge, In-and-Out isn’t risking her life this time--”

“Here, a skeleton key,” the cop says. “Now shut the fuck up and get in there.”

He snatches the key from her hand, wanting to argue with her that she’s the one wasting time, but knowing he probably was talking too much. It’s the only thing that really feels different about using his powers, this urge to ramble and fill those long, frustrating silences.

Grif turns his powers up another gear. Everyone seems to freeze in place, breathing so slow he can’t even tell they’re moving. Then he bolts, ignoring the deepening ache in his leg. He’ll make the search as quick as possible and then rest it.

He weaves around motionless people streaming out of the building. He searches the courthouse from top to bottom, inside closets and under desks and even in the bathrooms just in case the bombers wanted to be gross.

The only time he pauses is when the pain gets to be too much, pained nausea mixing in with the hunger pangs he gets whenever he uses his powers for too long. He pauses, scarfs down half of a lasagna from the staff fridge, and then gets back to searching.

When he finishes, he’s come up with nothing. He pauses just long enough to curse too, get in on the profanity, before he goes back to where the cop’s waiting. The other heroes are working with the evacuation team -- Grif can see Professor Stupendous in mid-wave, ushering a group of frightened civilians past the police perimeter.

“I didn’t find anything,” he says. Now that he’s standing still, he shifts his weight to his good leg. He’s getting that buzz in his ears and the tingle in his fingertips that means he’s overdoing it, the way he used to in those early days before Iteration figured out he needed to majorly up his calorie intake. He fumbles for one of his emergency protein bars. “I can look again, recheck all the nooks and crannies but this might be a load of bullshit. I kind of hope it’s bullshit. Did you want me to double-check?”

“Fuck,” snaps the cop. She takes forever, chewing on her lip, before she says, “Why would they plant a fake bomb after a real one? Though it could be some shitstain copycat. When I get a hold of the sons of bi--”

Grif doesn’t bother to listen to the rest. He takes it as a yes. He inhales deeply and does one more check, lingering for a few seconds in stairwells, scanning again for anything suspicious. He peers into a few abandoned purses, checks under a few jackets left behind in the rush. Still nothing. At this point it feels like he’s jabbing a hot poker into his leg. Sweat stings his eyes. He’s too hot in his hoodie, his mask too constrictive. He can feel his own warm breath against his face. He needs a nap. He needs to avoid Kai, because she’s going to kick his ass.

“Nope,” he says to the cop, keeping an eye out for his sister. “Nothing. Nada. Absolutely nothing that looks even a little suspicious.” He fishes out his phone, pulls up the TeamApp to text everyone that he didn’t find jack-shit.

The cop snarls. Then she scrubs her hands down her face. “Fuck. Okay. We’ll complete the evacuation and send in some bomb dogs, to be safe, but it’s probably just some dumbass kid playing a prank.”

“If you find the kid, kick his ass,” Grif says, frustration and pain giving an extra edge to his voice.

Thankfully Doctor Pacifist isn’t around to be scandalized because the cop snorts. “That’s police brutality, so nope. But I’m definitely gonna make him fucking cry.”

Grif spies a familiar yellow in the corner of his eye. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye, just uses his dwindling strength to bolt before she can see him. He’s learned from experience that if he can get out of her sight, she won’t be able to follow him.

He ducks into an alley and then sags against the wall for a second, rubbing at the tense muscle right above where Laserblade got in his lucky hit. “Fuck,” he hisses now that he’s alone. He fumbles for another protein bar.

He devours one. It blunts some of the wooziness, but only a little. He still feels queasy and exhausted. He can feel his powers sputtering, people’s shouting voices nearby speeding up and slowing down like he’s fast forwarding through a show. He checks and sees that he only has one more protein bar. Maybe he could go to the nearest restaurant, coax a dinner out of them and pay them back the next day--

There’s movement in the corner of his eye and then knives at his throat, sliding under the black mask like his hoodie and the mask aren’t even there. Grif jerks back, his shoulders hitting the wall, a shout caught between his teeth.

The knives move with him. He tries to look at his attacker, but his head’s spinning and the knives are pricking at his neck.

Someone snickers, an ugly sound. “Sweet dreams.”

Pain pulses in Grif’s chest. For a second he thinks his attacker stabbed him, and then he realizes it’s a different pain. A syringe, he realizes, plunged under his hoodie and into his chest. He tries to raise his hands and grab at the guy, but now he’s the one moving in slow motion. The throbbing in his leg fades, but so does every other feeling. Even his alarm and rage feel muted as he wills his stupid metabolism to shake off whatever the guy just injected him with. It doesn’t.

He has one more second to think that Kai’s _really_ going to be pissed.

Then he doesn’t think at all.

 

* * *

 

Part of being a villain means pretty much the entire city hates your guts. Church mostly accepted that when he became one, but he’s discovered a few restaurants where the owners hate the mayor or city hall or one of the heroes enough that they’ll let the Trio eat, sometimes for free.

“On the house,” says Mr. Bianchi, setting a pizza box down in front of Church. He wipes his hands on his apron and adds, “Just promise me you’ll mess with city hall soon, yeah?”

Church tries to remember why the guy hates the city government. Something about getting screwed over when he wanted to expand his restaurant? It doesn’t really matter. “Sure,” he says vaguely, reaching for the pizza and trying not to think about Carolina’s ultimatum.

“You sure you want just one? That Moonboose looks like he could eat a whole pie on his own."

“Just me today,” Church says before he can think about it.

Bianchi looks baffled, like he can’t comprehend the idea that the Trio isn’t glued together at the hip.

Church scowls. He opens the box, peels off a slice, and starts to eat it before he can say something that will make Bianchi hate him more than he hates city hall. The pizza here is pretty good. Even if it wasn't, it's usually free. 

Bianchi’s eyes flick up towards the TV on the wall. His mouth twists, half-amused, half-worried. “You could do it tonight. The heroes have their hands full.”

Church looks up and reads the scrolling headline. Apparently there’s another bomb threat from those anti-empowered assholes. His mood darkens. He’s still not sure if terrorists count as villains, but he hates the idea of civilians causing that kind of trouble in Blood Gulch. “Yeah, maybe,” he mutters. He snaps the box shut and heads for the door. He manages to get outside with his cape only briefly getting caught in the door.

He scowls as he walks down the sidewalk, earning some wary, some confused, and some hostile looks as he goes.

He has no idea what he’s going to do about Carolina. He could try to convince her that being a villain is his way of protecting the city. He dismisses the idea. It would’ve been a hard sell before the Orange Blur got hurt. Now it’s probably impossible. She won’t listen, even if he’s telling her the truth.

He can’t stop being a villain though. He’ll just have to figure out a way to get around her ultimatum. Maybe the Trio can disappear and he, Tucker, and Caboose can reappear with new names and costumes and voice modifiers--

Church doesn’t even let himself finish that stupid thought.

He morosely grabs another slice of pizza.

He passes under a streetlamp. His shadow stretches out ahead of him, his silhouette caught in the middle of stuffing the pizza into his mouth. He chews glumly. Then he chokes as the shadow peels itself off the pavement and launches itself upright.

“ _What the fuck_?” is all he gets out before the faceless shadow wraps ice-cold arms around him, the darkness spreading out and over him like a wave. When he opens his mouth to yell again, the cold rushes in. He can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t do anything but flail against the shadow smothering him.

It’s a relief when the darkness releases him. He staggers, teeth chattering as the chill lingers. He blinks, trying to reorient himself. He’s in an alley, apparently alone, though he knows he can’t be.

He’s dropped the half-eaten slice, but managed to somehow hold onto the box. It’s the only bit of warmth he can feel. He tries to gather enough breath to shout, though he doesn’t know what he’d say. No one in the vicinity is going to run to help a villain.

His shadow twists under his feet again. He jerks back instinctively, even knowing as he does that he can’t outrun his shadow, not in a city where it’s never completely dark. This time the shadow just closes freezing fingers around his ankles.

“Shit!” Church yells, trying to kick himself free. Panic chokes him. It must be a new villain. His hands are still free. He drops the pizza box and fumbles for his phone. He has to warn Tucker and Caboose--

There are other shadows in the alley. One of them, on the wall next to him, deepens.

Apparently Church is in a fucking horror movie. He forgets about the phone as an arm emerges from the shadow on the wall. Church gawks at the black leather gloves, and then yelps as the hand jabs a syringe into his arm.

“Fuck!” If it’s poison, he hopes that he won’t be dead for too long. Then again, he thinks, half-hysterical, maybe a few weeks of him being dead will make Carolina think he gave up. Caboose and Tucker will worry though.

Then the grogginess hits him. Is it better or worse when creepy shadow people want you alive?

Probably worse, he decides as his knees buckle and the alley ground rushes up to meet him.

 

* * *

 

Grif wakes slowly, with a pounding headache. For a second he wonders if he finally figured a way around his high metabolism and gave himself a hangover. Then his wrists twist in restraints and he remembers. There's a second, familiar pain in the crook of his elbows, like the IV drips he woke up to in those early days of being hero, when he was constantly passing out and accidentally starving and dehydrating himself. 

It takes him another second to realize that there’s an argument going on around him.

“Doing two at once is reckless. We should--”

The grave voice is interrupted by laughter. “We got them both, right? Yours practically walked into your arms! Calm down. 'sides, our buddy can handle it. Can’t you, Counselor?” Grif doesn’t recognize either voice, but he can hear the smirk in the second one.

There’s a pause, and Grif weighs his options. His head’s pounding and his stomach is pinching at him, demanding food before he can do anything. Though as he evaluates his condition, he realizes that despite the hunger pangs, he's not as weak as he should be. There are probably protein and liquid drips in his arm then, his kidnappers wanting him alive. Still, he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to yank himself free of restraints.

“Yes,” a mild voice says. Grif refocuses. “I understand your concerns and had similar ones myself, but Control urged expediency. We’ll do what must be done. Now….”

Grif opens his eyes, tensing, as a hand slides under his head. He instinctively tries to pull his head away, but there’s only so much movement he can make as he realizes they have straps across his chest too. Panic and rage tighten his chest. He finds himself staring up into a stranger’s face.

The man wears a reassuring smile. His hand cups the back of Grif’s head, cradling it. The touch is warm and unnervingly gentle. His voice is even gentler as he says, “I believe you and I need to have a very important conversation, Orange Blur.”


	22. No Strings Attached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Orange Blur and Doctor Terrible both have solutions to their problems. No one else seems to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is definitely the longest chapter we've had so far, but I wanted to post it before I went on vacation for a week. Hope you guys enjoy this action-packed chapter! It's one I've been looking forward to. 
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi as always, who helped me make this chapter and AU so detailed and fun!
> 
> End notes contain spoilers!

Kai’s ready to grab Dex by his hair and give him the biggest noogie of his life.

She fucking told him not to mess up his leg, but of course he went zipping and zagging all over the place to find that fake bomb. Then he ran away like a coward before she could call him a dumbass.

When she gets home, he’s not there. Probably had to stop and eat something on the way home. Either that or he’s passed out somewhere like an idiot. She feels a spike of worry and pulls out her phone. She texts him via the TeamApp to show that he’s in trouble.

_Yo, bitch. Where are you?_

There’s no response, which means either he _is_ passed out or he’s ignoring her text.

She goes ahead and orders the Jamaican food anyway. She’s not gonna suffer because Dexter doesn’t want to deal with the fucking consequences of ignoring her _one_ request about not fucking up his leg. When the delivery arrives, she divides it up and stows Dexter’s share in the fridge. He’ll just have to suffer reheated food.

She’s thinking about texting him again when there’s a familiar flash of orange in the corner of her eye.

Dexter stands in front of her, still in his costume.

Kai raises her eyebrows and says, “You’re in big fucking trouble, bro.”

And Dex...laughs.

It sounds wrong to Kai’s ears. After a second she realizes why. It’s not sarcastic. It sounds genuinely amused, like Kai made a joke. The amusement is still in his voice when he says, “Trouble. Yeah. We’ve been getting into a lot of that, right? Like, that bomb going boom and you taking that tumble, and then Laserblade got in that lucky swing, it’s been a real bad time around here, just a real shitty time.”

Despite this list of shitty things, Dexter’s voice doesn’t change. It’s cheerful and earnest and really fucking weird.

Alarm bells go off in Kai’s head.

“Yeah, it’s sucked,” she says carefully. “That’s the biz, though.”

Dexter hasn’t pulled his hoodie down, but she sees the movement as he nods. “But I figured out a way for you to be safe. I met this guy, he’s awesome. Just the greatest.”

If she hadn’t known something was up before, Kai knows now. Who the fuck would she meet? Dex has this whole weird shtick about not crossing the stream and letting his civilian and hero life mix. She’s never met any of the people he works with. She doesn't even know their names. And this wouldn’t be his weird way of introducing someone he’s dating to her. For one thing, he’s never let her meet anyone he dated once she hit middle school. (You steal one fucking boyfriend and apparently never live it down.)

“He’ll keep you safe,” Dex says. “Snug as a bug in a rug. We just gotta go. I’ll take you to him!”

Kai tries to keep the panic off her face. There’s a reason she managed to make her hero stuff her career. She’s never been a good enough liar to pull off a long-term civilian story. She pastes on a grin, the one she gives interviewers and reporters. “Sounds good, but I had plans--”

“Cancel them. This is way more important. This is gonna keep you safe.”

She fixes the grin on her face and nods. There is no way in hell she’s going to some fucking secondary location with him and meeting whoever fucked him up like this. “Sure,” she says, picking up her phone. “Lemme do that. And I should get my costume on, right? They wanna meet In-and-Out.”

There’s a pause. For the first time since he got home, Kai sees him hesitate. “I-- you’re--” There’s a tinge of confusion in Dex’s voice, and then he gives a little shake of his head, his hoodie shifting. He’s back to the same earnestness as he adds, “Yeah. He wants to meet In-and-Out. Why wouldn’t he? You’re the best.”

“Thanks,” Kai says, grinning even as the panic builds in the pit of her stomach.

She gets into her room, puts on her costume with hands that are starting to shake. She’s still panicking, but underneath the panic is rage. Someone is screwing with her brother and she’s gonna fucking destroy them. She sends a message via the TeamApp to everyone but Dex.

_Blur is being weird trying to take me somewhere SOS not a joke._

She hesitates, and then texts them the address of the deli down the street. She can get there with a few jumps.

“In-and-Out?” Dex calls from outside her door. “Ready to go?”

That’s absolutely not Dexter.

Kai takes a deep breath and teleports away.

 

* * *

 

 **Church:** _Come to the lair_

 **Tucker:** _dude I’m chilling with Junior_

 **Church:** _NOW_

 **Tucker:** _is it an emergency? are you getting attacked?_

“What the fuck?” Tucker mutters under his breath when there’s no immediate response. He texts Caboose and just gets back a _Church is mad :(_ which isn’t exactly enlightening. Church is mad ninety-eight percent of the time. The rest of the time he’s amused at someone else’s sucky life, panicking, or upset.

He slides a quick sideways glance at Junior, who’s too absorbed by the cartoon he’s watching to notice. He sighs and calls Sue.

“Mr. Tucker, I have exams,” she says.

Tucker knows what that means in teen lingo. “I’ll pay you double. He’s just watching cartoons before bed anyway.”

Junior looks up at that, alerted by something in Tucker’s voice.

Tucker says, “Sorry, buddy. I’ll be back really soon, okay?” He thinks to himself that this better be an emergency before he drops a kiss on Junior’s head and adds, “Love you.”

By the time he gets to the lair, he’s a little pissed off. This had better be an actual emergency. Then again, with the fucking month they’ve had, maybe it’s better if it’s just some dumb thing where Caboose accidentally killed Church again and Church is trying to get Tucker to let Caboose sleep at his place for a week.

“Dude, what’s the problem?” he demands as he walks in. “I had to pay Sue an extra twenty because it’s a school night and late as hell.”

It doesn’t look like an emergency. Caboose is sitting on the couch, looking worried like he always does when Church’s irritation is focused on him. Church dressed in full costume pacing around the room is a little weirder, but maybe Church has decided on a last minute plan.

“Took you long enough, Laserblade,” Church says sourly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tucker says, giving him the finger as he heads over to the couch. Time for one of Church’s stupid speeches. It’s only when he sees the weird expression on Caboose’s face that he actually listens to what Church said. Is Church doing some weird power play, calling him Laserblade when he’s not in costume? “Wait, what?”

Church ignores him. He paces around the room. His laser gun is propped against the wall. Church picks it up, looking down its sights before he lowers it and glares towards Tucker and Caboose.

“I’ve been thinking.”

Unease crawls up Tucker’s spine. It takes him a second to realize why. Church’s voice is cold as ice. When Church is angry, he goes screechy. It’s kind of funny, as long as it isn’t directed at Tucker. But this tone? This tone reminds Tucker of their first meeting, when Church threatened to choke him out and hissed about being a villain.

Tucker glances towards Caboose, who gives a little shrug, his brown eyes worried. “Seriously, what crawled up your ass and died?”

Church doesn’t answer. Instead he stares at them both, his eyes as cold as his voice, and says, like Tucker hasn’t said a word, “I’ve been thinking long and hard...and I realized something. What the fuck are we even doing here?”

Tucker and Caboose both stare at him. “Bullshit,” Tucker says. For a single second he has the paranoid thought that it’s the mirrorverse Church standing here. Then he dismisses it. That Church has his hands full with his own villains. Still, this isn’t right. They _know_ what they’re doing here. This is their city, and they’re claiming it and keeping worse villains out.

Well, at least _Tucker_ knows what they’re doing here, because Caboose says slowly, “Um, well, you are being mad and weird, and we’re sitting here listening to you being mad and weird--”

“Villains don’t work together,” Church says, still in that cold voice. “This was just temporary. And it’s time to stop.”

“ _Stop_?” Caboose stands up, looking alarmed. His voice rises. “Just 'cause someone stupid messed up and hurt Mr. Blur doesn't mean we should stop!” He gives Tucker a look, like he honestly thinks this is Tucker’s fault.

Tucker scowls. “Shut up.” Tucker's palms itch for their blades though Tucker doesn't summon them. This whole thing feels off. He stares at Church. “If this is some weird hissy fit because robbing the bank went bad, chill out. It was an accident, and he's gonna be fine. We're not leaving.”

Church’s eyes narrow. “I don’t think you heard me, Laserblade. This Trio idea was stupid. Leave.” When neither of them move, some of Church’s icy calm breaks. His voice rises, though it doesn’t hit that familiar screech. “Get out of the city! We’re not a Trio anymore, okay? If I hear about Moonboose or Laserblade hanging around--”

“Dude, we live here, we work here, we’re not leaving,” Tucker says, overlapped by Caboose’s protest, “It’s not stupid! We’re friends!”

“We were a team, Moonboose,” Church snaps back. “We were never friends!”

Caboose’s eyes go big. He looks wounded.

Tucker doesn’t realize he’s going to use his dad voice until he does, “Don’t be mean to him just because you’re pissed about the Blur thing or whatever you’re pissed off about. Also? Fuck that noise. We’re your friends--”

“Do you two ever fucking listen?” Church yells. His voice cracks. “Go!” He’s still holding onto his gun. He raises it. Tucker watches in disbelief as he aims it towards them and actually pulls the trigger.

“Fuck!” Tucker yelps, ducking as the laser goes over his head. Okay, Church might bitch and moan and threaten them with that gun, but he wouldn’t actually shoot him. So either that’s someone with a great illusion affect or someone’s messed with Church or--

It doesn’t matter. He’ll kick Church’s ass and figure this out later. He summons his swords and steps towards Church, ready to carve the gun in half if he needs to. “You--”

Church fires off a second shot. It sizzles over their heads again, but this time there’s a worrying crack.

Tucker looks up just in time to watch the roof come down.

 

* * *

 

 **In-and-Out:** _Blur is being weird trying to take me somewhere SOS not a joke._

 **Sergeant Blood:** _I knew he was evil!_

Simmons spends the entire time driving to a block away from the deli wondering what the message means. In-and-Out didn’t elaborate even when he texted back asking for clarification.

When he gets there, he’s greeted by the sight of In-and-Out perched on the top of the deli, in a staring contest with the Orange Blur, who’s standing in the parking lot.

“Um,” Simmons says. He sees pink, and realizes that Magic Mouth is approaching from the other side of the street. “What’s, uh, going on?”

“Blur’s being weird!” In-and-Out shouts. She doesn’t elaborate.

“No I’m not!” the Orange Blur shouts back. He glances between Simmons and Magic Mouth. He sounds slightly winded, but also a weird mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Everyone’s fine, guys. Everything’s good! I’m not being weird. I’m just trying to introduce In-and-Out to a good guy who’s gonna keep her safe as houses, safe as a locked box in a bank. I don’t know why she’s being shy. He’ll keep you safe!”

This last bit is called to In-and-Out, who shouts back, “Fuck that!”

Simmons frowns. He takes a step in the Orange Blur’s direction. He's beginning to see what In-and-Out means by weird. The guy is standing still enough that Simmons can see the way he’s plucking at the bottom of his hoodie. For a second Simmons wonders if it’s a new villain with illusion powers that’s decided to attack the city.

Then the Orange Blur moves. He races around the corner of the deli. He's not as fast as usual, moving at a high speed but about the speed he was by the end of searching for the bomb, where he's still a blur but there's an aftermath left behind, a smear of orange like a comet's tail behind him.

“Fuck,” In-and-Out says. She teleports to another roof. “Forgot about the fire escape.”

The Orange Blur reappears and turns towards Simmons. “Come on, dude, help me out here. We’ve got to convince her to go--”

“I KNEW IT!” a distant voice yells. It’s Sergeant Blood, sounding like his birthday has come early as he skids around the corner of the deli. His shotgun is already in his hands, swinging wildly around before Sergeant Blood spies the Orange Blur. He grins. “I KNEW HE’D GO BAD EVENTUAL--”

He takes another step and stops. “That’s not the Orange Blur.”

Sergeant Blood sounds so disappointed his voice actually wobbles.

“Guys!” the Orange Blur says and laughs. “Of course it’s me! Can anyone else move this fast?” He zips around the parking lot one more time and then stops with a jerk. Some of the humor goes from his voice. “We’re wasting time. Quit joking around and let me get In-and-Out somewhere safe. She needs to be safe. Did we forget about that bomb? Did we forget that she almost died? We’re--”

“What do you mean, not the Orange Blur?” Simmons asks.

Sergeant Blood growls. “Ain’t your instincts clamoring at you, son? That’s not the Orange Blur! He feels funny like--” He pauses, grimacing. “Just all kinds of wrong!”

“No shit!” In-and-Out yells.

“You have to be safe!” the Orange Blur says. He’s back to sounding earnest again. “I found a guy who will keep you safe and we need to go! We need to go, you need to meet him, he’ll protect you, you’ll be safe--”

“Who?” The question slips out of Simmons’ mouth before he can bite it back.

The Orange Blur glances towards him, his black mask expressionless. “What?”

Simmons swallows, his mouth dry with nerves. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he gets what Sergeant Blood means. This feels wrong. He thinks of the mirrorverse Orange Blur, who was willing to steal him from his timeline to get his sister out of jail. There’s no way either Blur would try to force In-and-Out somewhere she didn’t want to go.

He glances towards Magic Mouth who gives him an encouraging nod. He takes a breath and then lets the questions spill. “Who’s this person you want her to meet? Why can’t he meet us here? How is he going to keep In-and-Out safe? Is he able to protect the whole city?”

“I--” The Orange Blur pauses. When he speaks again, there’s a hesitation in his voice that wasn’t there before. “I-- I have to take her there, to keep her safe--”

Magic Mouth’s voice fills the air, warm and concerned. “You don’t actually want this. Blur. Look at her! She’s up on a roof to get away from you! I know you, something is wrong, you don't want to take In-and-Out anywhere.”

The Orange Blur looks up at In-and-Out, perched at the edge of the roof, watching him warily. Something changes a little in his body language, his shoulders tightening. His next words come out slowly. “Something _is_ wrong.” Simmons’ second of hope is squashed a second later when he adds, “No one's listening to me! Why aren’t you guys listening? I found a place to keep In-and-Out safe, where she won’t get blown up or killed like Iteration, and she won't go!”

“You trust this guy?” Simmons says. “With--” He swallows back the question that rises to his lips. _You trust him with your sister’s life?_ “With In-and-Out’s safety? And you can’t even tell us his name?”

The Orange Blur hesitates. “I--”

“If this place is so safe, maybe we should all go there!” Magic Mouth suggests, his cheerful voice at odds with his narrowed eyes. “Wouldn’t your friend want us all safe, not just In-and-Out? Who’s this guy anyway? I would love to meet--”

There’s one of those slowed streaks of orange, like an afterimage.

Simmons has a few seconds to watch the Orange Blur move towards Magic Mouth, but not enough time to stop him. He still lunges forward anyway.

Magic Mouth goes down hard, clutching at his throat.

 

* * *

 

It all makes sense until the ceiling comes crashing down.

The Trio has to be disbanded. They’re just laughingstocks anyway. No one takes them seriously. Even injuring the Orange Blur was clearly a fluke. The smart thing is just to give up and get Moonboose and Laserblade to leave and get the fuck out of Dodge before they all end up dead.

It makes perfect sense until Laserblade is on the ground, possibly dead, because of Doctor Terrible’s own gun. Moonboose went down under the ceiling too, but he’s been through worse. He’s already shaking it off, sending pieces floating away.

Doctor Terrible looks down at his gun, and for a second he wants to throw it as far away from him as possible. His hands shake. Just as quickly as the thought comes, it’s gone, replaced by a stronger one: this is what he wanted. He wanted-- He wants to be rid of Laserblade and Moonboose. He wants the Trio done. He might not have planned to go this far, but this will show them he’s serious.

Moonboose bends down and lifts a piece of the ceiling off of Laserblade. He’s frowning. He touches Laserblade’s shoulder and gives it a small shake. When this earns him a faint groan, Moonboose straightens and turns his frown on Doctor Terrible.

“You’re not allowed to use the gun in the lair,” Moonboose says.

“Oh, goddamnit!” Doctor Terrible snarls. “That’s your takeaway from this? I shouldn’t shoot my gun in the lair? Shut up!” He waves his gun, this time keeping his finger off the trigger. “I told you guys to leave! It’s not my fault you guys are both too fucking stupid to take a hint!”

Moonboose just watches him, his frown deepening. Usually Moonboose looks confused or cheerful or stubborn, but every once in a while he’ll hit Doctor Terrible with a weirdly penetrating look, like if he stares hard enough he’ll read Doctor Terrible’s mind. He gives Doctor Terrible that look now.

Moonboose says a soothing voice, “You’re mad and upset. I mean, you’re always mad or upset and sad, but I think you need a timeout. We don’t hurt Laserblade, even when he’s being really stupid, like saying the moon is made of cheese, remember? And when _I_ hurt him, I have to take a timeout, so I think--”

“Shut. Up.”

“No,” Moonboose says. “Something’s wrong and I want to help--”

“Help? _Help_?” The laugh rips itself from Doctor Terrible’s throat. “When have you ever been helpful?”

Moonboose looks hurt for a second, and then mulish. “I’m helpful a lot!”

Doctor Terrible points towards the door. “Leave.”

Moonboose looks even more mulish. “No.”

“Seriously, get the fuck out.”

“No.”

“Goddamnit, Moonboose! _Leave_!”

“No,” Moonboose says with the same stupid stubbornness. Now he steps forward, his eyes lowering, an almost crafty expression flitting across his face.

Doctor Terrible realizes he’s looking at the gun a second before Moonboose reaches for it. He jerks the gun up instinctively.

Thoughts flash through his mind. The Trio has to be disbanded by any means necessary. This close he can’t miss. This close, the laser shot will cut through Moonboose’s insides like a knife through soft butter. The Trio has to be disbanded, but-- He can’t kill-- He can’t--

Pain spikes in his head. This isn’t right, he thinks in one moment of pained clarity, and then the agony comes again. An awful sensation comes with the pain, like someone’s running their fingers through his brain.

His finger twitches towards the trigger without his conscious decision, but Moonboose has his hands around the barrel and pulls it from Doctor Terrible’s grip with that easy strength of his. He tosses it aside. “Timeout.”

The pressure in Doctor Terrible’s skull increases. “I--” There’s another mind in his head, cool and dispassionate and not his own, crowding Doctor Terrible’s thoughts into the back of his own head. He fights, but it’s like being caught in a riptide. He gets crushed into one small corner of his skull. 

The pain stays, but all other sensation goes. He can’t feel his mouth, his body, just watches through his own eyes as his own voice, as cold and dispassionate as the mind invading his head, says, “Well, you _are_ stubborn, aren’t you, Moonboose?”

 

* * *

 

Magic Mouth goes down. Simmons can hear the pained wheeze.

“Now this was truly unfortunate,” the Orange Blur says. Or at least his mouth moves and his voice comes out. The inflection’s all wrong. Simmons can see he’s standing all wrong too, his hands clasped in front of him. “If In-and-Out had come with him, this all could've been avoided--”

Simmons dives forward and brings his cyborg fist down into the Orange Blur’s thigh, right where Laserblade’s sword hit.

The Orange Blur screams and stumbles backwards.

Simmons swings at him again, seeing red. Someone’s using the Orange Blur like a puppet, to hurt their team, to try and hurt the Blur’s sister. Simmons is going to hurt _him_.

His fist hits air as the Orange Blur bolts out of reach, still too fast. Simmons did hurt him, though; he sees a split second of the Orange Blur wobbling on his feet before the Orange Blur runs halfway across the parking lot.

“Good plan,” Sergeant Blood says. “Knock him off his feet. Speedster can’t run if he’s flat on his back.” There’s still a tinge of disappointment in his voice, but his hands are steady as he lifts his shotgun and fires off a series of shots that have the Orange Blur dodging left and right.

Simmons blinks. He wasn’t even thinking strategy, but now he sees past his own rage to try and create a plan. He lets Sergeant Blood keep shooting and goes over to Magic Mouth helping him to his feet.

“Ow,” Magic Mouth says. He’s still wheezing a little, his voice rough.

“Are you okay?” When Magic Mouth nods, Simmons adds, “Can you still use your--”

“I think so,” Magic Mouth says hoarsely. “I used it once when I had strep throat, so--” He coughs, rubbing at his throat and adds ruefully, “Glad he’s usually on our side….”

Simmons remembers the mirrorverse Orange Blur threatening him and the terrifying knowledge that it’s all but impossible to escape a speedster. “Yeah,” he says a little weakly, and then refocuses. “You can’t do anything like this, right?”

Magic Mouth laughs and then winces. “What? Use someone like a puppet? No. I don’t know anyone who can do this. I’ve heard of people who can plant fake memories or erase memories. My powers are more about suggestion, not this.” He waves in the direction of where the Orange Blur is a split second before another shotgun blast sends the Orange Blur darting away.

Simmons watches the Orange Blur move. He thinks of the Orange Blur’s pained yell. Had the Orange Blur felt that blow, or the person controlling him, or both? He says, “We have to drive him out.”

“Enough!” the Orange Blur finally shouts. He’s breathing hard. He growls and dodges another shot from Sergeant Blood. “I said enough!”

“We accept your surrender!” Sergeant Blood says.

“I’m not surrender--”

The Orange Blur staggers, his arms flailing for a moment.

A second later Doctor Pacifist appears, his arms around the Orange Blur’s neck. His foot connects with the back of Orange Blur’s knee. He yells, “This possession of the Blur is _clearly_ not consensual!” as the Orange Blur’s leg buckles.

The Orange Blur almost goes down to his knees. He reaches behind him, grabs Doctor Pacifist and throws him aside like Doctor Pacifist weighs nothing. He must be feeling the strain, though, because he gets up slowly, clearly unsteady. “Now as I--”

Magic Mouth knocks him off his feet in a tackle that would’ve been impressive in a Superbowl game. They hit the ground with a thud.

Simmons is there by the time the Orange Blur has wrested himself free of Magic Mouth’s grip. The Orange Blur gets halfway upright before Simmons kicks him in the thigh, right where his fist hit a minute ago.

The Orange Blur crumples, his breath escaping him in a pained groan. Magic Mouth grabs his right shoulder. Simmons grabs the Orange Blur’s left shoulder and puts all of his cyborg strength into keeping the Orange Blur down.

Sergeant Blood presses the gun between the Orange Blur’s shoulder-blades. “Will blasting him unconscious a couple times help?” he asks, sounding hopeful. When the Blur shifts a little, he digs the shotgun in harder. "It couldn't hurt!" 

The Orange Blur struggles, but his breath is coming hard. Now that he’s stuck in one place, Simmons can see the sweat soaking his hoodie, hear each rasping and muffled breath escaping his mask.

It’s only then that there’s a familiar pop of displaced air. In-and-Out crouches in front of the Orange Blur, staring into his mask. Her eyes are narrowed. “If I need to get a bucket of holy water, say the fucking word. I’ll rob a fucking priest.”

“What?” Simmons says, blinking.

“For the ghost,” In-and-Out says.

“I don’t think it’s a ghost,” Magic Mouth says, voice still slightly hoarse.

“Just an empowered villain,” Doctor Pacifist agrees. He’s gone invisible again, presumably to catch the Orange Blur off-guard again if he manages to break free from Simmons and Magic Mouth’s grips.

“I--” The Orange Blur doesn’t get a second word out.

In-and-Out grabs his head and says fiercely, “Get the _fuck_ out of him. I’m going to find you and tear off your ghost dick, you fucking piece of shit.” Her voice changes. “Blur, tell this ghost to go fuck himself.”

Magic Mouth’s lips twist a little, like he wants to correct In-and-Out again, but he says, his hoarse voice warm and sincere, “You can fight this person, Blur. That’s your head, not theirs. They don’t belong there.”

Simmons licks his lips. He hesitates. He thinks of mirrorverse Blur and In-and-Out, thinks about the constant thread of worry for In-and-Out in the Orange Blur’s fast-paced rambling whenever they’re all in danger. He says, “Whoever it is, they want In-and-Out. You can’t let that happen, Blur. You won’t let that happen! You’ve got to protect her, and you can’t do that while you’re their puppet.”

“I can always shoot him,” Sergeant Blood offers again.

The Orange Blur’s shoulder jerks in Simmons’ grip. “That isn’t-- That isn’t necess-- necess--sss--” The word seems to catch between the Orange Blur’s teeth, which clatter as the Orange Blur’s entire body shudders.

Sergeant Blood makes a satisfied grunt and steps back, lowering his weapon as the Orange Blur hisses out, “ _S_ - _Sssson of a bitch this sucks_!”

“There you are,” In-and-Out says, squeezing the Orange Blur’s head between her hands.

The Orange Blur growls in a low, rough whisper, “Oh, don’t fucking-- ow, my head-- act like you did anything. A fucking ghost? You thought I was being controlled by a _ghost_? You’re a dumbass--”

In-and-Out drags him into a hug.

Simmons and Magic Mouth let go.

The Orange Blur doesn’t move for a second, until In-and-Out says, “Bitch, hug me.” Then he closes his arms around her, dropping his head against her shoulder and muttering, “Don’t rob priests. I mean, pretty sure religion is all fake, but don’t blow your fucking chance. Or blow a--”

“Rambling,” In-and-Out says, her voice coming out watery.

Simmons bites his lip, not wanting to interrupt the moment. But his worried curiosity tightens his throat and strangles him until he has to ask the question or choke. “Blur, um, who did this to you?”

The Orange Blur doesn’t let go of In-and-Out. He’s quiet for a second. Then he curses again. “I don’t, uh, the fucker-- I remember his voice but I don’t-- I can’t see his face. I know I saw him, but I can’t-- I don’t--” He stops. “Fuck my head hurts.”

“Well,” Magic Mouth says slowly. “We haven’t had a Wine and Cheese Hour in a while.” He glances over at the deli. “This isn’t my usual place, but I do love to support family-run businesses.”

“Oh, yeah!” In-and-Out says. She’s still hugging her brother, but she turns her head towards Magic Mouth and nods, her eyes smiling over her mask. “I bet that dickweasel ghost didn’t let you eat anything!”

“In-and-Out, for the last fucking time, there’s no ghost,” the Orange Blur says. He lets go of her and tries to stand. He stumbles, and Simmons and Magic Mouth both reach out to steady him. He doesn’t knock their hands away. Instead he takes a breath and mutters, “Uh, thanks. And yeah...I could eat.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, you _are_ stubborn, aren’t you, Moonboose?” someone else says with Doctor Terrible’s mouth.

The pain and numbness lingers, and Doctor Terrible hears his voice change. It’s still cold, but now there’s an attempt at the right inflection. “Or should I say stupid? Yeah, stupid works. Let me say this as simply as possible: I don't want you here. I don't need you. This whole thing was a joke. I'm not going to stick around here and risk my neck fighting every single villain that comes along.” It’s still not quite right, but it’s a close mimicry.

Moonboose stares at him. “You wouldn’t leave Blood Gulch.”

“To get away from you? I’d buy a first-class ticket to anywhere. Just do us both a favor and get over this fake friendship you’ve built up in your head. I was just using you and Laserblade, nothing more. We’ve not friends.”

Moonboose’s mulish look falters. A flush reddens his cheeks. His voice rises. “Yes, we are! We’re best friends!”

The longer the invading presence stays in Doctor Terrible’s head, the more familiar it feels. He remembers a little of this, like fragments of a nightmare, the calm, pitiless voice wresting answers from him, the muddled memory of restraints and questions, and a gentle hand on the back of his head.

“No. You were just a henchman. That's all you're good for. And you're not even good at that!”

“I’m good--”

“Petty vandalism? Destruction of property? You’re not a henchman, you’re a nuisance. You’re useless--”

Moonboose’s voice rises again. “Stop! I said timeout!”

“But I don’t know what I expected. You might be strong, but you’re useless. You told me yourself, didn’t you? You couldn’t even protect your own family.”

The color drains from Moonboose’s face. His eyes go wide.

Doctor Terrible can’t feel his body, but he’s still riddled with guilt. No wonder the guy sounds like him. He blabbed that much to the guy, remembers opening his mouth and spitting out complaints about Moonboose: he shouldn't even be a villain, he'd probably be a better hero, he’s off in his own world half the time, he--

“Timeout,” Moonboose whispers.

The invader ignores the plea. “You know, you didn’t say. When your father was murdered, how long did he scream? Had he stopped before you were out of earshot? Couldn't protect your sisters, so your mom had to abandon you all. You're just brute muscle, a henchman. I wonder…. Are you considered an orphan if your own mother gives you up?”

Moonboose’s expression sets. His eyes narrow. He takes a step forward and Doctor Terrible is reminded of the sheer size of him. “Ah. I think I understand. What you are saying. And what you are saying, is that you're not actually Doctor Terrible. And you are going to get out of him right now.”

“I--”

“RIGHT. NOW.”

Moonboose seizes Doctor Terrible’s shoulders and begins to shake him like a rag doll.

Some of the feeling returns to Doctor Terrible then, the pressure in his head easing just a little as pain replaces it. He bites the inside of his mouth, tastes copper as Moonboose shakes him half to pieces.

“You are not Doctor Terrible,” Moonboose says fiercely. “Doctor Terrible wouldn’t say that about my family. He wouldn’t hurt Laserblade. Get out of him!” He gives Doctor Terrible another shake. “Get out!” Moonboose pauses and gives Doctor Terrible a searching look. His hopeful expression clouds over. “Doctor Terrible, listen to me. This guy is bad and stupid. He thought you would quit being a villain. You wouldn’t, not ever.”

Moonboose speaks like he’s quoting fundamental truths of the universe. It shouldn’t help. Half the time Moonboose is saying something stupid with that same certainty. But the words sink in and push at the invading presence because this time he’s right. Doctor Terrible knows he’s right. He can’t stop being a villain. He _can’t_ even if he can’t remember why not.

Doctor Terrible can still taste the blood in his mouth, the ache in his bones from being rattled around. He tries to work his lips and twitch his fingers, feeling a flicker of relief when they obey him.

He grabs clumsily at Moonboose’s wrist, mutters, “Keep...talking,” before the pain spikes his head and the numbness spreads again.

Moonboose’s expression brightens. “Doctor Terrible, I knew you were in there! You are the best villain ever and my very best friend. We’re a good team even if Laserblade messes up sometimes. This villain stole your body, made you hurt Laserblade.” He leans closer, his eyes fixed on Doctor Terrible’s. “No other villains allowed, remember? He can’t be in your body. He can’t be in Blood Gulch. Tell him to get out!”

Doctor Terrible clings to Moonboose’s voice. The certainty is infectious. No other villains are allowed in Blood Gulch, and there’s one in his head, playing him like a puppet, hurting his _friends_ like some creepy dickhead--

Furious, he beats his own mind against the other one. It’s his turn to crowd out the invading mind, his thoughts focused on one single determined effort: get this fucker out of his head. He imagines a bat, like the one he used against the zealots, and swings it again and again against the other mind, snarling silent curses as he does. Every blow hurts Doctor Terrible too, but it’s a fainter echo, and Doctor Terrible has endured worse. He keeps beating at the other mind.

Then the other mind fights back. It’s not like before, a feeling like a riptide shoving him against the back of his own skull. This is a whirlpool trying to drown his thoughts. The sensation of fingers combing through his brain returns, the fingers curling agonizingly tight, digging in like the invader wants to rip his brain out of his head.

Fuck that, Doctor Terrible thinks as the numbness returns. He can’t even taste the blood in his mouth anymore. Fuck all of this. This is Doctor Terrible’s head. _He_ belongs here, not this asshole.

He kicks the bastard in the fucking teeth.

With that kick, there’s an explosion of pain. When the agony ebbs, that other mind is gone and Doctor Terrible-- _Church,_ his name is Church-- can feel the regular aches and pains of his own body. He takes a deep breath, and feels his chest rise and fall.

The entire time Caboose has been talking in his ear, never losing that certainty. “--know you wouldn’t ever say those things. We’re going to make him say sorry, and we’re gonna--”

Church feels a pang of guilt, remembering everything the asshole said to Caboose. He tries to straighten, but his legs wobble under him and he ends up leaning into Caboose’s grip. He feels like he’s been run over by a truck or maybe this is what it’s like to experience ten hangovers at once.

“Fuck,” he says, his mouth still clumsy. “Caboose, stop talking--”

“Church!”

There’s joy in Caboose’s voice and Church probably shouldn’t be surprised when Caboose wraps his arms around him and hugs him, crushing him against Caboose’s chest. His breath still escapes him in a surprised rush anyway as Caboose says, “You’re back!”

“Yeah,” Church mumbles. The numbness is gone, but the aches and pains are still there, and a faint pins and needles like his whole body has been asleep. “We should check on Tuck--”

Caboose hugs him tighter.

Church braces himself. This is the kind of Caboose hug that breaks ribs. He closes his eyes in anticipation of more pain, but it doesn’t come. Instead the hug is gentle, something soft against his cheek that feels almost fuzzy, and there feels like there are more arms around him than there should be.

He opens his eyes as something curls around his shoulder.

Church stares. He’s too exhausted to feel anything than a dull confusion. “Caboose,” he says slowly. “Either that guy broke my brain on his way out, or you have tentacles.”

And eye stalks. Church tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. Clinging to him is an enormous, vaguely jellyfish-like creature with eyes on the ends of their stalks that glow blue and ten or twenty blue, slightly furry tentacles that twitch and curl around Church’s shoulders and waist.

Those glowing blue eyes meet Church’s. As they do, they widen and turn purple. A whistling sound hits Church’s ears before the tentacles yank away and the creature twists and contorts and finally shifts into a familiar Caboose.

Caboose’s face is pale, his expression stricken. “Oh no. I didn’t mean-- I promised--” His voice rises to a wail. "I didn't mean to!" 

With a start, Church realizes that he’s about to cry. The only other times Church has seen Caboose this upset was the first time he died, and when Caboose had told him a little about his dad’s death, his mom sending him and his sisters into hiding in different places. Clearly Caboose had given him the condensed version.

Now Caboose’s face crumples again and he says, “I broke my promise!”

“Hey, hey, it's okay,” Church says. His head is still aching, but he reaches out. Caboose feels solid under his hand. He was a shapeshifter? Church didn’t think any existed outside of comic books. After a long second, he decides he’s too fucking tired from being kidnapped and brainwashed to ask right now.

“No, I promised her I wouldn't show anyone, and I--”

“Hey!” Church says. Caboose looks at him with watery eyes. “I'm not telling anyone.”

Some of the color returns to Caboose’s face, but he’s still frowning, his mouth trembling as he says, “No one's supposed to know.”

Church nods. “Yeah, and no one but you and me do. It's fine.”

Caboose keeps frowning. “We don’t have to tell Tucker?”

Church snorts, imagining Tucker’s reaction. “No way, he can’t keep that secret.” Then he remembers the ceiling coming down. Worry and guilt tightens his chest. “Crap, Tucker!”

Caboose bends towards Tucker still sprawled on the ground. He gives him a little shake. “Wake up.”

Tucker groans, and then tenses. His eyes flutter open and try to focus on Church. “Get away from him,” he says, his voice slurring. His hands raise and twitch. It takes Church a second to realize he’s trying to summon his swords.

“Oh, it’s okay! It’s Church now!” Caboose says, patting his shoulder.

Tucker squints, looking woozily suspicious until Church says sourly, “Yeah. Add that to something I didn’t know some villain fucker could do. We’re gonna find that asshole and I’m gonna gonna make him an example like I did the zealots.”

Tucker stares at him for a second, and then nods, wincing as he does. “Yeah. Okay.” He sits up with a groan, touching his head where there’s dried blood. He winces again. “Fuck. What a shitty week.”

“No fucking kidding,” Church mutters.

Tucker stands up, wobbling. “I should probably go see-- go, uh, get my head checked out.”

Church watches him, worried, but Tucker stays on his feet. Probably a concussion. Church tries not to think about how it could’ve been more serious. He focuses on revenge. They’ll lay low for a bit, get Carolina off his back by seeming to stop, and let Tucker recover, and then they’ll go after this son of a….

Church reaches for the memories of his kidnapping and finds them altered. Every one of them is like those break-up photos where you burn away the faces of your ex and leave everything else intact. He can hear the guy's calm and reasonable voice, remember fragments of their conversation, but he can't remember the face. It’s a hole in every single memory since he woke up in restraints.

He grits his teeth in frustration. It doesn’t matter. They’ll find this guy and make him sorry he ever decided to come to Blood Gulch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caboose's design is in the style of a [Flumph](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Flumph), a Forgotten Realms creature.


	23. Wanna Talk About It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif doesn't want to talk about it, and Caboose can't, but some conversations happen anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fallout from the last chapter! 
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi as always, who's managed to get me invested in Church/Caboose in a way I never expected, haha.

_“Woop-woop! That's the sound of da police! That's the sound of the beast!”_

Grif tenses at the sound of Kai’s TeamApp alert, his pulse jumping. Can’t they get a week or two without some bullshit happening? “Seriously, worst ringtone,” he mutters a beat too late, aware that Kai’s watching him.

Kai gives him a look, like she knows he’s already keyed up, but doesn’t call him on it.

Grif grabs his own phone.

 **Prof:** _It's not an emergency but I have a potential security update for TeamApp I want to discuss with everyone before I implement it. Could we all meet tonight or tomorrow?_

Grif feels some of the tension ease from him. He snorts. “Such a fucking nerd.”

“I swear he’s like old and stuff under that weird mask of his,” Kai says. She mimics the Professor’s voice but makes it a bit wheezy. “Before I implement it. What a loser.” Despite the insult, there’s amusement in her words.

“Bet you twenty bucks he’s our age,” Grif says. On the one hand, the Professor doesn’t understand emojis and texts like he’s using a goddamn typewriter. On the other hand, the Professor talks a lot. And he talks fast when he’s nervous or excited, which is always. The speed is still slow, but not the mind-numbing pace everyone else does. He’s easy to listen to.

“Oh, twenty bucks,” Kai says. “Feeling fucking confident.”

Grif grins at her as he shoots off a response.

 **DG:** _tonight in an hour works for me we could go to easy eats n mouth can treat us_

 **Mouth:** _I’m available, but why am I paying????_

 **DG:** _don’t be a cheapskate dude_

 **Kai:** _yeah nagl_

 **Mouth:** _:(_

 

* * *

 

Grif and Kai get to the restaurant fashionably late, Grif waiting until Mouth texts them asking for an ETA to race Kai to Easy Eats. He wins, of course, even if she tries to cheat. His leg doesn’t even bother him until he’s slipping through the front doors of the place.

Mouth grabbed them a private room, apparently. When Grif and Kai enter, he sees everyone else already has their drinks and that the Professor is half-pacing around the table.

The guy’s nerves are contagious. Grif frowns before he reminds himself that the Professor said it wasn’t an emergency. It’s just the Professor being the Professor.

“Hey,” he says.

The Professor jumps. “Oh, uh, good, you’re both here! Uh, the server already took our drink orders, but I can get him--” He turns and gestures, and then sighs as the server passes by the door without even looking at him.

“I got it,” Kai says and then teleports out to the server.

The Professor doesn’t sit down. Instead he holds up his phone and presses a button. Light comes from his mask, and an image of the TeamApp appears on the wall behind them as the Professor launches into a hurried explanation, half tripping over the words like he’s worried that they’re going to tell him to shut up before he can finish.

“So I have a potential patch to the TeamApp but I, well, I wanted to run it by you guys first. See, uh, the new red button with EM on it in the right-hand corner? It’s a new security thing, so if you’re in danger you can press that button and, um, it’ll alert everyone else on the team you need help and, uh, give out your location for rescue.”

He stops. Just as suddenly as he stops talking, though, the Professor is off again. “Um, or I mean, I know you guys were nervous about having people be able to trace you, so maybe it’s stupid, I just, uh, I was trying to think of-- I thought it might help….”

This time Grif can hear something under the nerves: a tinge of exhaustion, like the Professor has been twisting himself into knots trying to figure out a way to protect the team.

“It’s not stupid, Professor!” Mouth assures the Professor before Grif can figure out what to say. “I was just thinking that Blur didn’t exactly get a chance to reach for his phone.”

Embarrassment heats the back of Grif’s neck. He glares. “Fuck you. I’d just run around that goddamn courthouse three times, lickety-split, my leg hurting like a bitch, and the guy was fast, and had a needle, and what fuck kind of villain drugs heroes anyway?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that!” Mouth says hastily. “It’s just if they can catch a _speedster_ by surprise, the rest of us don't really have a chance.”

“I was thinking,” the Professor says quickly. "Um. About the being caught by surprise problem? Maybe in addition to the emergency button, we add the ability to set off an alert on someone else's phone if they're MIA. That just seemed like....a potentially bad idea? Or at least something the villains could use or, uh.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you guys before I did anything.”

“Sounds a little complicated,” Blood says slowly, squinting at the display on the wall.

Kai laughs. “You think a toaster is complicated, old man.”

Blood’s thick eyebrows bristle. “I’m not _that_ old!”

“I think this all sounds good!” Doc interrupts as Kai leans forward and smirks at Blood. Before Grif can snipe at him about his unhelpful comment, he adds, “Though I see what you mean about the potential to, um, misuse it. Maybe complicate it a little?”

“Oh!” Mouth says. He claps his hands. “You could make it so that at least two members have to click that button to turn on the emergency search for a hero? That way the villains won't be able to use it if they capture someone.”

“And no one here will do it for a prank,” Doc adds.

Everyone, as one, looks towards Grif.

“Dude, why is everyone looking at me?” he complains. “I wouldn't do it as a prank! What, like I’m gonna press the button and follow Blood around town? First off, I don't wanna know who any of you weirdos are behind the mask. Especially Blood. It’s gonna be depressing or funny or both, but probably just depressing.” He reconsiders his words as even Kai gives him a doubtful look. He grins a little reluctantly. Yeah, it would be fun to prank Blood, or at least threaten to and keep the dude on his toes. “Okay. I mean, I wouldn't do it right now anyway, while those fuckers are out there….”

Blood snorts. He glances between Kai and Grif and mutters, “Better make it three.”

“Hey!” Kai protests.

“So, um, that’s a yes on both ideas?” the Professor asks uncertainly.

Grif stares at him. “That’s a fuck yes, dude. We don’t know jack shit about these guys except that they wanted In-and-Out.” His chest tightens, remembering the faceless guy’s calm voice, sounding so fucking reasonable as he dug around in Grif’s head and convinced him that Kai was safest with him. He licks his lips. “We need to be able to find her if she gets grabbed--”

Kai says, sounding annoyed, “I’m not gonna get--”

“--So we can kick their asses and get her back and I can punch that dude's throat the way he made me hit Mouth's, see if he can make anyone into a puppet again after that, see if he--”

He only realizes he’s raised his voice when the server opens the door to the room, looking curious. He snaps his mouth shut, grinding his teeth as more words catch in his throat. “Yeah,” he mutters finally. “It’s a good idea. A good plan.”

“Um, thanks,” the Professor says. Grif wishes the guy didn’t wear such a weird mask that covered his entire face. He can’t tell what the Professor is thinking, if he’s feeling sorry for Grif or thinking about what a screw-up he is. The Professor holds up his phone again. His fingers fly across the screen as he says, “I’ll send an update for the emergency button right now. The location button will need some tweaking for the three hero idea, but I’ll get that to you guys tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Mouth says. He smiles. “Thanks, Professor. It’s nice to know you’re looking out for us!”

“Um, thanks,” the Professor repeats. He sounds flustered now. “It’s nice that, uh, you guys, um, trust me.”

The Professor sounds flustered again at the end of the dinner, when Grif is stuck waiting for his takeout box, which is going to take a while since Kai keeps distracting the server by flirting with him.

“So, Blur, um.”

“Spit it out, dude,” Grif advises him when the Professor shuffles his feet and doesn’t say anything else. “Say whatever you want to say, don’t just stand there.”

“Okay,” the Professor says, and then hesitates. When the question comes, it’s quiet and hesitant. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Grif stares blankly. “About what?”

“About, well.” The Professor gestures towards his head.

Enlightenment dawns. Grif grimaces behind his mask. “Trying to forget all of it, dude. These guys want In-and-Out. We have no idea who they are because the asshole literally stole his face out of my memories, and they want her, and I was gonna hand her over to them like a dumbass.”

That’s the worst part of it. Yeah, being moved around like a puppet was creepy as fuck, but the worst part was being completely convinced that he was doing the right thing taking Kai and delivering her to some whackjob who would’ve done who knows what to her. He feels a little sick every time he thinks about it, sick and stupid.

“I didn’t want to be a hero, but I couldn’t let In-and-Out run around on her own, or leave her safety up to Blood or Iter— to anyone else. And I wasn’t bad at being a hero, you know? I’m fast, I can get people out of burning buildings and shit, but now I’m screwing up all the time and it fucking sucks. First I ran around while In-and-Out almost blew up, then I got stabbed by fucking _Laserblade_ , got my leg half-chopped off like a dumbass, then I got kidnapped, the dude’s fingers all over my brain. Then I almost dragged In-and-Out right to the bad guys, and now I can’t even offer up anything useful to track the assholes down--”

“Blur,” the Professor says. “Stop.”

Grif does, embarrassed that he’s been spilling his guts.

Before he can decide to just snatch the takeout box from the server and run, the Professor adds, “That was a lucky hit by Laserblade. And it's not your fault these guys used your injury against you.” He pauses for a second, and Grif has no idea what the guy looks like, but Grif can hear the tentative smile when he adds, “It was the only way they could ever catch you anyway. We’ll find them and stop them. They’re not getting In-and-Out.”

The Professor is so fucking earnest. He’s practically vibrating with it.

Grif should make fun of him for it, but instead he finds himself wanting to believe him.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

“A concussion, big fucking surprise. I’m on bed rest for a week,” Tucker grumbles. His phone has that weird echo it sometimes gets when he’s calling from his apartment and Church is in the lair’s kitchen.

“Okay,” Church says. He was rummaging through leftover takeout from the fridge, trying to figure out which was still edible, when Tucker called. He’s glad he’s alone. There’s no one around to see him lean against the wall with legs suddenly weak with relief. At least he didn’t fuck Tucker up beyond repair.

Tucker’s still complaining.

“It’s gonna suck, ‘cause I still need to get Junior to school and shit. Next time you get brainwashed by a creep, can you not drop a goddamn ceiling on me?”

Church knows he’s joking, but his stomach twists and he feels phantom fingers move inside his head. He tries to joke back, but he can hear the flatness in his voice. “Next time you should dodge, dumbass.”

“Fuck you, dude,” Tucker says. There’s no heat behind it. He pauses. “So how are we gonna get these assholes?”

Church grimaces. “We’ll figure something out when we don’t have one-third of the team brain-damaged.”

Tucker snorts. “Okay, so we’re never getting these guys, because Caboose is--” There’s a muffled sound. Tucker’s voice softens, takes on that distinct voice he only uses talking to or about his kid. “Yeah, buddy, Dad’s feeling like crap, so we’re gonna have some ice cream in a sec.”

Despite the guilt churning in his stomach, Church feels his lips twitch into a smile. It still confuses him how Tucker of all people can be a good dad, but he definitely is. “Go eat ice cream with Junior and get some rest,” he says. “We’ll lay low for a week.”

“Okay,” Tucker says and hangs up.

When Church wanders into the living room with a dubious carton of leftover Chinese and says, “Tucker has to rest for a week,” Caboose looks worried and relieved for a second before his expression brightens.

“So it’s just you and me and no stupid Tucker for a whole week?”

“Yeah.”

Caboose beams.

Church hesitates. “Which means, uh, we could talk about anything. So do you wanna tell me what, uh--” He gestures vaguely. “--that was all about?” At Caboose’s puzzled look, he wiggles his fingers and immediately feels stupid, especially when Caboose keeps looking confused. He coughs. “The, uh, tentacles thing.”

Caboose’s excitement is snuffed out in a second. His broad shoulders hunch, like he’s trying to make himself small. “Oh. Um. Yes. You want to know about that, because I, um, broke my promise and now you know. About the tentacles. And other stuff.”

He doesn’t look like he’s about to cry again, but Church is still alarmed by the unhappiness in his voice. “Hey, we talked about this, remember? You didn’t mean to show me, and I’m not telling anyone. I’m just, uh, curious.”

Caboose squints at him.

“You don’t have to answer, I just have some questions." A lot of questions, actually. Is this how that nerd Professor Stupendous feels all the time? "You can tell me to shut up--”

Caboose gasps. “I would never!” he says, scandalized. Then he looks thoughtful. “Well, unless that bad man was making you say mean things again. But I wouldn’t be telling _you_ to shut up, just—”

“Got it, Caboose,” Church says hastily. He remembers Caboose’s expression when the asshole using Church as a puppet said those things about his family. He swallows against the impulse to apologize again and fidgets with the carton. He focuses on his curiosity, a safer emotion than anything else. “Just. Is it okay if I ask some questions?”

Caboose looks uncertain. “I promised my mom I wouldn’t tell anyone about, um.” He bites his lip and mimics Church’s wiggling fingers gesture. It looks even more stupid when he does it.

“Right. Uh. But is that--” Church wiggles his fingers one last time, feeling his soul die a little. “--a disguise or is this your disguise or what? And are there more?”

Caboose blinks. “A disguise?” he says slowly. “It’s not a disguise.”

“Okay,” Church says, but Caboose keeps talking.

“It might have been nice to pick a second form for myself when I was older, but this shape is good! Nice and sturdy.” Caboose pats his chest and smiles. “I probably would’ve picked it anyway.”

Church mutters, “That in fact didn’t answer my questions and raised several others….”

Caboose’s smile fades. His shoulders tense. “Okay.”

Church realizes he’s braced for more questions. He wants to kick himself. Here he is, indulging his curiosity when Caboose is worried about breaking his promise to his mom even more.

He dismisses his other questions for the time being and sits down on the couch next to Caboose. It’s strange to think that this might not be Caboose’s original body. He has a stupid urge to poke Caboose’s arm, like he hasn’t felt the strength of those arms dozens of times before.

“But you promised your mom so never mind, I guess.” Church hesitates. “And thanks for...telling me. A little. And for still trusting me after that guy used me to hurt you. I won't tell anyone about this.”

Caboose smiles at him, a slow smile. “I know you won't. You didn't tell him our names.”

A raw laugh escapes Church. “Yeah. Still let him fuck things up though. Still let him say all that shit to you.”

“You stopped him,” Caboose says simply. “And we’ll make him leave go away for good.”

Church takes a deep breath. He wishes he was as good a person as Caboose thinks he is. Still, he feels steadier as Caboose keeps smiling. He kicked the guy out of his head, and he, Caboose, and Tucker are going to make sure the dickweasel regrets his entire life. “Right. We just have to figure out how to track down a guy who can mess with people’s brains.”

“We could use Tucker as bait,” Caboose offers.

Church is pretty sure he’s only half-serious. He still shakes his head. “Yeah, I don’t think Tucker will go for that.”

“We don’t have to tell him,” Caboose says. He’s still smiling, but now he’s fidgeting. His knee keeps bumping Church’s, and he’s twisting his fingers together in his lap, darting little glances at Church like he thinks Church won’t notice.

Church waits a second, but Caboose just keeps fidgeting. “What?”

Caboose gets a weird look on his face. Church can’t figure it out as Caboose says in a low mumble, “It's not weird?”

Church blinks. “What?”

“It's not weird?” Caboose repeats a little louder. He turns a little on the couch, his face suddenly close to Church’s. His gaze has that narrow focus it sometimes gets, like he’s listening really carefully.

Church leans back, confused by the intensity. “What’s weird? Caboose, you're gonna have to elaborate here.”

Caboose bites his lip. “I'm not weird, with my, um…” There’s one more wiggle of his fingers as he watches Church anxiously.

It clicks in Church’s brain. The weird look is Caboose feeling _shy_ about his tentacle shape.

“Caboose, I die and rot and revive. My life is already goddamn weird. You having tentacles is in the top five weirdest things, sure, but it’s fine--”

“Really?” Caboose says.

“Yeah, really,” Church says, still a little stuck on Caboose feeling shy. He didn’t think Caboose even knew that emotion. He thinks about the tentacle shape being Caboose’s original form. Does it take effort to keep up this human shape? “Is, uh, this shape less comfortable?”

Caboose blinks. He scrunches up his face, shrugging. “Oh, it’s… I mean, I wear it all the time now. It’s good! Sometimes feels a little big, but it’s good.”

Church hesitates. “Yeah, well, Tucker’s not gonna be around for a week, so if you wanna be your tentacle shape around the lair--”

Caboose shifts. Tentacles wrap around Church, those eye stalks curling to peer at him and a bubbling sound filling the air.

“--that’d be cool,” Church finishes weakly. Now that he’s not half-conscious after kicking someone else’s mind out of his brain, the weirdness of the whole thing crashes down on him. Caboose has _tentacles_. They’re wrapped around Church, tickling his jaw, soft and slightly fuzzy and not human at all.

What makes it even weirder is that it’s not the worst hug he’s ever had. He laughs a little, and hears shock and relief in it. It’s weird, but it’s still Caboose, hugging him like he wants to spend the entire week like this. Church moves a little, and Caboose moves with him, clinging to his shoulders.

“Okay, we're not testing this out, but can these hugs break my ribs like your other ones--”

Caboose’s tentacles tighten, and Church yelps, half-laughing, half-worried, “That wasn’t a challenge!”

The tentacles loosen a little, but Caboose doesn’t let go.

Church resigns himself to a long-assed hug. He hesitates, and then pats Caboose’s head. It’s smooth and warm under his fingers. “Can you talk like this?”

Caboose’s head vibrates a little under his hand. A humming sound fills the air.

“English, I mean,” Church says. When Caboose hums again, he snorts. “Gonna take that as a no.”

Caboose keeps holding onto him, showing no desire to stop. The hug’s a little uncomfortable but it feels less weird as time goes on.

Church relaxes against the back of the couch, Caboose’s tentacles shifting a little so they don’t get trapped between Church and the couch. He reaches for the remote, turns on the TV but keeps the volume low. He glances at the half-forgotten carton of food, probably already cold again, and decides to eat it later.

Caboose hums again, and then the sound shifts, a melody of sounds like a wind chime.

It’s weird, but pretty. Church thinks of all of Caboose’s off-key humming when he’s distracted. Is this what he was trying to do? This is nice, though.

Church half-closes his eyes, Caboose singing quietly in his ears. For the first time since his own shadow attacked him and everything got even more fucked up than usual, he relaxes.


	24. The Devil Wears Flame Proof Kevlar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons almost has a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a little fashion! Please enjoy creatrixanimi's [art](https://cinaed.tumblr.com/post/185770417384/creatrixanimi-here-are-some-superhero-designs-for) of everyone's costumes. 
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for looking this over for me, as always.
> 
> Also, sorry about the cliffhanger but I'm taking a brief hiatus due an illness. I'll get back into the swing of things when I can, hopefully in a week or two!

**Magic Mouth:** EVERYONE MEET AT THIS WAREHOUSE ASAP!!!!!!

 **Professor Stupendous:** It’s not an emergency! But yes, please meet me and Magic Mouth at the warehouse.

 **The Orange Blur:** what is it a fucking rave why the fuck are we going to some abandoned warehouse

 **Magic Mouth:** It’s a surprise. ;) ;) ;)

Simmons frowns down at his phone, wondering if he should try to explain. At this rate he feels like the Orange Blur is going to ignore the invitation. Then again, In-and-Out will probably drag him here. He takes a deep breath, nervous despite how excited Magic Mouth, In-and-Out, and Doctor Pacifist have been about the costume redesign. Magic Mouth has even transformed the warehouse space into something like a fashion show. It has a catwalk and everything.

Sergeant Blood enters the warehouse, shotgun at ready, like he thinks this is a trap. His look of suspicion only deepens when he sees the set-up. His eyes narrow. “What’s this?” he mutters.

“You’ll see,” Magic Mouth says cheerfully, bouncing in his heels. He shoots Simmons a conspiratorial grin.

Next, the Orange Blur trails behind In-and-Out, who gives Magic Mouth a high-five and Simmons a wink as she says, “Time to party, bitches.” Then she disappears behind the catwalk and into the makeshift changing room.

The Orange Blur groans. He calls after her. “Party? No party. I told you if it was a weird rave I was out of here--”

“It’s not a rave,” Simmons says quickly. Nervous excitement flutters in his stomach as the Orange Blur turns and looks at him. He can’t see the Blur’s face, but skepticism radiates off of the other hero anyway. “Let’s, uh, just wait for Doctor Pacifist and then I’ll explain.”

“Uh huh,” the Orange Blur says. He doesn’t sound enthusiastic. He shifts from one foot to the other, a restless movement. Simmons wonders what he’s thinking as he looks around and takes in the catwalk and mood lighting that Magic Mouth insisted on installing. “You’ll explain why it looks like Mouth set up Project fucking Runway and is smiling like today’s Christmas and his birthday rolled into one happy day?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

The Orange Blur snorts.

A few minutes later, Doctor Pacifist runs in with a breathless, “Time to show everything off?”

“Show what off?” Sergeant Blood demands.

“Fashion, assholes!” In-and-Out announces, strolling onto the catwalk with a sway to her hips and her eyes bright with excitement. She stops at the end of the walkway, her hand settling on her hip as she looks over the group.

From the corner of his eye, Simmons sees Magic Mouth look sulky for a split second, like In-and-Out spoiled his big announcement. Then Magic Mouth straightens to his full height and flips his hair over his shoulder. He says in a loud theatrical voice, “With the Professor's help, we've made everyone's costumes fashionable _and_ practical!”

“What?” Sergeant Blood says blankly.

Simmons clears his throat. He smiles nervously behind his mask as everyone looks in his direction. “I’ve, uh, been trying to figure out a way to improve the durability of our costumes since that, um, huge apartment fire. I designed some new fabric material that will handle higher temperatures and lessen impact, and Doctor Pacifist, Magic Mouth, and In-and-Out have been nice enough to assist, so--”

“New costumes for everyone!” Doctor Pacifist says cheerfully.

“But it looks the same?” Sergeant Blood says.

Magic Mouth laughs. “Well, mostly. We didn’t do total redesigns for everyone. You can’t mess with perfection like with mine and In-and-Out’s, Doc was fine with his, and we knew you wouldn’t wear the new one if we changed yours, Blood!”

“So you just changed mine and the Professor’s,” the Orange Blur says flatly.

In-and-Out laughs. “Yeah. Cause yours suck.”

“You wear a hoodie,” Magic Mouth says, sounding genuinely pained.

“So?”

Simmons goes behind the catwalk and finds the rack of new costumes. He can hear bickering about the Blur’s costume being classic or lazy. The Blur’s definitely losing the argument, and sounds annoyed about it. He’s probably going to be even more annoyed when he sees Magic Mouth and In-and-Out’s redesign.

He pushes the rack out into the open as In-and-Out says, “You’re wearing it. You heard the Professor. It’s resistant to all sorts of shit, like fire and punches.”

Magic Mouth grabs his costume off the rack, gives Simmons another wink, and then saunters off to get changed.

“Yeah, I’m not mad about the Professor’s new shit, like making us more badass is cool, but why are the Professor and I the only ones with a new look? That’s bullshit. My hoodie is fine.”

Simmons thinks of the few times he and the Orange Blur have been in close contact, the warmth that radiates off him. “You don’t get hot?”

In-and-Out snickers. “Oh, he--”

“Ugh, fuck this,” the Orange Blur mutters. There’s a smear of orange across Simmons’ vision, and then the Blur’s costume is gone off the rack. Another second, and the Orange Blur is wearing his new costume and snarling, “ _Seriously_?”

“Magic Mouth and In-and-Out worked really hard on it,” Simmons says weakly. He flushes a little as the Orange Blur turns in his direction. The Blur’s features are still mostly obscured as he vibrates in place, but Simmons helped make the costume. He can guess at how the Orange Blur looks.

A guy with In-and-Out’s coloring, his new hood and mask hiding all but his eyes, which are probably narrowed in irritation at the moment. The new sleeveless costume and running shorts probably show off all of the muscle he’s built up with his speedster powers and his broad shoulders.

“Yeah, I can tell,” the Orange Blur says. His voice is slightly sour. “That’s why I look like an aerobics instructor instead of hero. Why the fuck am I showing so much skin?”

“For fashion,” Magic Mouth says, shaking his head as he poses next to In-and-Out on the catwalk. “Now who wants to give these outfits a test run?”

“I’ll set you on fire,” In-and-Out says, giving him a hip bump and a grin.

Sergeant Blood snorts. “Why bother? The man’s already flaming.”

“Sergeant Blood!” Doctor Pacifist scolds, and then picks up a flamethrower from the supply table. He throws up it up towards In-and-Out with a grunt of effort, and she catches it like it weighs nothing at all.

Simmons blinks. “Uh, before we start, I want to remind everyone that fire and heat resistance and impact absorption doesn’t mean you guys can’t still get hurt--”

In-and-Out turns on the flamethrower and everything dissolves into chaos.

Doctor Pacifist bolts over to the rack and grabs his own costume as In-and-Out turns the roaring flames on Magic Mouth and then curses as the Orange Blur snatches the flamethrower out of her hands. “Thanks, Professor!” he says before blinking out of sight.

“You’re welcome,” Simmons says, even more weakly than before. He winces as In-and-Out punches Magic Mouth in the side hard enough that he stumbles sideways. “Guys, seriously, you’ll still leave bruises--”

Everyone ignores him. He sighs.

Sergeant Blood watches the chaos for a minute, his face unreadable. Then he turns and claps Simmons on the shoulder. “Good work on protecting the team, Professor,” he says gruffly. Before Simmons can react, Sergeant Blood’s voice lowers. “Wish we’d had these doohickeys back--” He stops, shakes his head, and pats Simmons’ shoulder again before he grabs his own costume off the rack.

Simmons watches him stomp away, a sympathetic ache in his throat. Before he can think too long about Iteration, though, he jumps as the Orange Blur appears next to him.

“Throw on your fancy new digs, Professor,” the Orange Blur says. “Did they convince you to wear a Halloween skanky costume version of your old outfit or what?”

“Oh, uh.” Simmons flushes. He thinks of the new design that In-and-Out and Magic Mouth had insisted on, even if they haven’t seen the final product. He’s not ready to be without a mask, the only thing covering his face a red visor. And while he’s not at In-and-Out or the Orange Blur levels of skin showing, it’s a lot more than he’s comfortable with. He starts to rub at the back of his neck and then shrugs. “I'm still tweaking my design.”

“Lame,” the Orange Blur says. “C’mon, Prof. If I have to suffer, so do you. Wear your skanky outfit and suffer with me.”

“No,” Simmons says, laughing. “And your outfit isn’t skanky, it’s--”

“Fashion,” Magic Mouth says again, trying to punch the Orange Blur in the back of the head. The Orange Blur dodges it easily and then hits Magic Mouth back. Magic Mouth is wheezing a little as he adds, “None of you appreciate my vision!”

“Seriously, guys, you can still hurt each other,” Simmons says.

Everyone continues to ignore him. He’s not really surprised at this point.

He is surprised when Sergeant Blood snatches the flamethrower from In-and-Out and says, “Dear Lord, thank you for this moment,” and shoots a distracted Orange Blur in the back.

The flames bloom across the Orange Blur’s head and shoulders, casting light like a dangerous halo. He yelps, more out of surprise than pain.

“All’s fair in love and war!” Sergeant Blood shouts gleefully. That’s all he gets out before the Orange Blur bolts at him.

Simmons leans against the catwalk and watches everyone fight, alternating between pride that the new costumes are working and sympathetic flinches every time someone lands a good hit.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like Simmons has solved the team’s current problem. Those new villains with mind control powers are still out there, and no one knows their agenda except that they’re interested in getting In-and-Out. There’s still a threat looming over their heads.

Still the TeamApp and costume updates are at least a step in the right direction of building a stronger defense. And this is the most useful Simmons has felt since he watched In-and-Out teleport away with the bomb.

“Well, _someone’s_ in a good mood today!” Donut says brightly.

Simmons blinks. He looks away from his computer. “What?” He realizes he’s smiling a little to himself and immediately grimaces.

Donut grins. “Don’t play dumb, mister! You keep smiling.” His eyes widen. He leans forward. “Oh, are you going on a date?”

“What? No,” Simmons says. He flushes as soon as he hears the baffled note in his voice. He probably shouldn’t sound so confused by the idea of going on a date. He coughs. “I mean, no. I just, uh, I guess I’m just having a good day.”

Donut looks slightly disappointed by the denial.

Meanwhile Grif smirks. He glances up at the clock. “Mark the date and time, Donut. Simmons isn’t being a cranky bitch.”

“Shut up,” Simmons mutters. More heat creeps into his face. He tries to come up with a good excuse to be in a good mood and comes up blank. “Can’t I just have a good day?”

“Nah,” Grif says.

“We should all be having a good day,” Sarge says. He jabs a finger towards the door. “Since that idiot across the hall fell down the stairs and got himself a concussion, we’re a sure win this month!”

“Hollow victory,” Grif says, and Sarge glares at him.

Simmons has a second’s hope that Grif and Sarge will get distracted arguing with each other, but Grif turns back towards him, grinning, and says, “Seriously, didn’t think you were a TGIF kind of dude.”

“TGIF?” Simmons echoes.

“Thank God It’s Friday,” Donut says. He grins. “Always a mood.”

“Oh. Right.” That would’ve been a good excuse. Simmons pastes on a smile. “Well, I guess that helps.”

Donut’s still watching him. Curiosity lights his face. “Seriously, why the good mood?”

“Uh,” Simmons says. “I got a good night’s sleep?”

Grif snorts.

When they’re packing up at the end of the day, Grif leans against Simmons’ desk. He looks amused. “What’s up, dude? I won’t snitch.” Before Simmons can say anything, he snorts again and adds, “And don’t give me the good night’s sleep bullshit.”

“I did get a good night’s rest,” Simmons mumbles under his breath. A better one than he’s had in a while, anyway. Then he remembers the excuse he came up with during his lunch break. “Oh, I found out that this Mexican restaurant I’ve been wanting to try is doing a charity week! Ten percent of week’s profit goes towards butterfly conservation efforts. It’s pretty cool.”

“Gotta save the butterflies,” Grif says, mock-solemn.

Simmons thinks of how much of Grif’s paycheck probably goes towards food. Still, the place has great reviews, and he bets that Grif would like the cerviche. “It’s a little pricey, but it’s not for a month. I can make a reservation if you want?”

The fake seriousness leaves Grif’s face. He grins. “Like I’m gonna say no. Think of the butterflies, Simmons.”

“Aw, that sounds like a nice date,” Donut says cheerfully.

“It’s not a date!” Grif and Simmons snap together.

Donut makes a face.

 

* * *

 

Simmons is fishing inside his bag for his keys when his cybernetic eye pings with an alert. It’s a reminder from the library that he checked out an emoji-to-English dictionary.

“Right,” he says with a sigh, making a mental note to try and renew the book. He borrowed it hoping that it would help him understand what Magic Mouth and In-and-Out are saying in their text messages, but he hasn’t even gotten a chance to look at it.

He opens his door and takes one step into his apartment before his gaze falls on the stranger sitting on his couch. He freezes.

The man smiles at him. When he speaks, his voice is smooth and warm. “Good evening, Mr. Simmons. Your landlord somehow got the impression that you were expecting us but had forgotten to leave your key under the mat. He was nice enough to let us in.”

Two thoughts occur simultaneously.

One, that Simmons is in fucking trouble.

Two, that the man had said ‘we.’

Simmons brings his arm up, grateful that it’s his cyborg arm when knives cut through his shirt-sleeve like tissue paper and strike the metal alloy.

His attacker jerks back his hand with a startled snarl, shaking out his hand, and Simmons’ cyborg eye helpfully points out that the man can turn his fingers into knives. So this is the guy who kidnapped the Blur.

Simmons sees red. He moves to punch him. The guy’s wiry, though, and fast despite his surprise. His fist clips the villain’s ear. Then he has to jerk back as the guy makes another swipe at him. The knife fingers catch his tie and shred it into pieces.

“Really, Mr. Simmons,” says the man on his couch. He sounds disappointed.

The door is still open behind Simmons. He starts to move backwards, trying to get some distance from those knife fingers, and then freezes again as the villain smirks at him, a wide, nasty sneer spreading across his half-covered face as he drawls, “Aw, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Professor. We don’t want any civilians involved.”

Simmons has known since he saw the man on the couch that his civilian identity is compromised, but it’s one thing to know it, and another thing to hear it from a villain’s mouth. His cybernetic eye pings an alert at his accelerated heartbeat, pounding too fast in his ears. He thinks of his neighbors. There’s a young family across the hall, an elderly couple above him who walks their cat outside when the weather’s nice. He can’t put them in danger. He licks his lips, glances between the two villains. “If I go with you guys, you’ll keep the civilians out of it?”

The man on the couch smiles. He stands up. “I had hoped you would be reasonable, Mr. Simmons. I’m glad to see my hope wasn’t unfounded.”

“Yeah, great,” says the knife guy. From his expression he was hoping for more of a fight. He glares at Simmons and holds up his hand again, lights glinting off the sharp, gleaming metal. “No funny business or it’s more than your tie getting cut to ribbons.”

“Now, now, there’s no need for threats. Mr. Simmons is an intelligent man. The founder of three thriving companies! I’m sure he understands the stakes.”

Simmons’ stomach lurches. Not only is his civilian identity compromised, these guys seem to know everything about him. He’s spent years being a shadow founder of those companies. How did they figure it out? Have they been following him around? Have they been in his lab? Is it only his identity that's been uncovered, or do these guys know about the rest of his team? His skin crawls.

“I do,” he says through gritted teeth.

The man smiles. As he approaches, he reaches out and pats Simmons’ shoulder, ignoring the way Simmons flinches. “Good. I hope you’ll keep being reasonable.” He nods towards the door. “Shall we?”

Simmons gives a little nod even as he walks out into the hallway, the man at one shoulder and the knife guy at the other. His mind races, thinking up escape ideas and discarding them just as quickly. Once they’re out of the apartment, he might be able to get away without collateral damage. He’ll worry about his compromised identity later. Right now he just needs to escape.

But when they get out into the parking lot, Mrs. Zhou is there too, wrestling one of her kids into a car seat as the other two chase each other in circles around the van. She gives Simmons a distracted smile and then turns back to her daughter with a hasty, “Emily, shoes stay _on_ your feet!”

The knife guy’s hand settles between Simmons’ shoulder-blades. Simmons can feel the fingers shift from normal human fingers to knives, pricking through his shirt as the guy says, “See that black car right there? That’s our ride.”

“Right,” Simmons says.

He’s still looking for an escape route when the sedan’s door closes behind him.


End file.
